Why Cats?
by Bekatfela
Summary: Potter luck was both a blessing and a curse. It was like Sod's Law in action: if something could go wrong, it did, and usually in the worst possible way. He'd never even dreamed of being stuck in a Zombie Apocalypse though. AU, OC's. Not a one shot. Slow updates.
1. Dolore's strikes back

Disclaimer: Walking Dead and Harry Potter are not mine, and never will be. This story is a a 'What If' created for entertainment purposes, no profit motive included.

Enjoy

Why Cats?

There were times he was called paranoid bastard. Something he could agree with.

And looking at the state of the world today, he was bloody glad he was.

It wasn't exactly new, though the comment had been rare during the war. With the entirety of the wizarding population in fear of the Dark Lord, later his remaining followers, and the tosser's showing up constantly like a cut-rate production of The Grudge to make attempts on your life, people tended to be more understanding. Especially of the need to check for or neutralise anything that might be bad for your health.

After the War, however, even Hermione's eyebrows had started twitching upwards in disbelief. Keeping stock-piled supplies, a veritable armoury and keeping constantly up to date with weaponry, warding and fighting styles alike was apparently 'wasteful, and unnecessary'. He should be concentrating on a career! He didn't need to be a soldier anymore, she'd tried to explain gently. After all, the Death Eaters had been all but eradicated and blood prejudice stamped out. Well, the violent tendencies, anyway.

He'd frantically stopped her before she'd even managed to finish ' _Everything was fine and nothing was going to happen.'_. Seriously, had she learnt nothing in Hogwarts? The events that had landed them in this side of the Veil? Or even the years that followed the end of this Blood War?

The Sirius-named Potter Luck had resulted in no less than three unplanned and supposedly impossible trips to the deep past, and more than twelve magical or artefact related incidents with odd side effects. And that was _after an unplanned trip to another reality that had yet to end._ Not that he didn't enjoy being able to see straight without glasses. But the eerie hawk eyes and hyper-sensitive hearing he could have done without. In his defence, none his fault.

Well, he paused, shoulders deep in an expanded cupboard and trying not to sneeze. Mostly, anyway. How was he supposed to know that the glowing rune casket would open an interdimensional portal just because he looked at it funny?

The Unspeakables had in the end given up trying to figure out how he did – or didn't – act as a nexus for random acts of improbability, and just given him a job. Easier to manage damage control and gather data when you were already on scene, after all.

He cursed as he banged his head on the opening, glaring daggers at it briefly, before moving to the fridge.

Where his train of thought promptly derailed.

What the hell? A table in a fridge? Why – Just, why?

"Better not knowing" He sighed, closing it with finality. Knowing the average Magical, there was no knowing just what end result was intended by the previously comely witch, with a fixation for weird food and garish pink, named Agerta Wellsbridge. Now dead undead. Bah, too many double negatives.

Still in a bad way, it was laughable. He nearly snorted as he summoned and shrank what was still edible from the counters, including a spice rack.

After all the magical threats he'd faced, caused and now instinctively prepared for, it was irony itself that it was a muggle-made plague that justified his apparent paranoia.

Funny, for all that Dudley had scoffed at (and would never in a million years have admitted being scared by) horror films, and even after finding out about magic, zombies had never registered to him as something _real._ An over-used shock tactic; gore, screaming, utter assholes surviving and damsels in distress dying. Etc. Never would he have thought it would actually _happen_ , let alone from a muggle virus. Nor had he ever stopped to contemplate just what it would _mean_.

Too many had died, the taste of ash on his tongue evidence of it. Parents, siblings, children: the weapon hadn't passed by anyone, young or old. Magical or muggle.

He opened yet another cupboard and was rewarded with a blast of cold air. The chilling charms hadn't faded yet – good, there might be something salvageable. And…. Nope. He liked cheese as much as the next person, but this was ridiculous: the latest packet got thrown into his bottomless pouch with a bad tempered scowl.

Oh, he knew about Inferi: had dealt with them far too often, the darker families Grimoires practically giving step by step instructions on their creation – and unfortunately accessible to Death Eaters. Apparently, after the first Blood War Tom had been fairly conservative here, couldn't rule over Muggles if they were all shambling corpses after all: his followers hadn't been nearly so thoughtful after his demise. It was the similarity that had caught out a few of the magical populace in the beginning.

They came close to what this was: unstoppable unless you had Fiendfyre or killed the magical power-source, the puppeteered corpses had the look down to a T, and the hunger to destroy anything living was certainly familiar. But Inferi were tied to the source of power – Rune stone or Wizard, it didn't matter – and their fluids weren't infectious (or possible venomous?) like this muggle strain. Oh, a decently strong fire spell would immolate them, true, but infection was always fatal: fever, hallucinations, then death. It took anywhere between minutes and hours for the body to get up, hungry and soulless. No magic involved, not connection to break.

And thus was the new life-cycle of the human race, apocalypse addition. Who said there wasn't life after death?

He couldn't help a grim smile at that.

Ah, gallows humour. Likely Hermione would have slapped him senseless for it if she knew. This Zombie outbreak hadn't been kind for anyone involved, and everyone had lost someone by now (not him. Not yet. But then, aside from Hermione who did he have to lose?) – though the Magical world had fared better than the muggle. Then again, any one of the Blood-War Children (as their generation had been dubbed) rarely had fond memories of shambling corpses, if such a thing was possible anyway, and usually a healthy set of survival instincts to boot.

And apparently her father had been bitten just two hours before Kingsley had managed to issue a warning, finally compiled the survivors reports of the first couple of 'attacks'.

Opening another cupboard, he found himself face to face with a kitten adorned set of china – the third so far – and scowled. The outraged 'meows' he received from the enchanted plates for closing the door with a slam were promptly ignored, in favour of moving to the living room.

Did Hermione like cats? Yes. Was he going to collect those for her? Hell _no._

He nearly twitched when he reached the living room. Apparently Agerta had had a fascination for knitted sweaters, blue cheese and sneakoscopes but little else. And he wouldn't trust her to decorate a cupboard, let alone a house.

The chorus of wailing – thank the Gods for his automatic use of Silencing wards – only reinforced the thought.

Thankfully, most of the Order was alive and uninfected, if not very shaken. He hadn't been the only one prepared to repel an attack of some kind, and Inferi had been used often enough during their skirmishes with Dark Tossers that the specialised (lost) Wards he'd brought back with him from one of the unplanned trips to the past had been installed with almost unanimous agreement. Even Hermione had let him recharge them periodically for all her preaching of peace. Fort Grim housed most of them now, with Wards strong enough to immolate any Inferi or Zombie trying to come near.

He'd never thought his need to not unnecessarily complicate things would ever come in so handy. If he'd brought back the more in-depth, admittedly stronger version, focused on the specific magic animating inferi, rather than the more general one that blocked something without a soul, 'dead', entering the Ward, they would have been useless against the Muggle version.

The words ' _I told you so'_ had been on the tip of his tongue when she'd turned up in the Apparition point bedraggled. A suicidial urge, sure, but so tempting.

Still, there was a good thing in all of this. Because they came back with no soul, and the magical core was tied to the soul rather than the body, a magic using Zombie was very, very improbable.

He nearly shivered, halfway through stuffing a sneakoscope in a pocket that really should have been too small to fit it. He loved magic, but that was a disturbing thought.

That didn't mean that the magic didn't cause an issue, nothing was ever that _easy_ : apparently a magical person made for a temporarily more intelligent Zombie. Something to do with magical residue trying to activate more of the consciousness and heal the host body, either from inside the body or from magically saturated areas. He'd honestly zoned out after the virology part of it. Kill Zombies, it's airborne, but avoid getting bitten or scratched. Knowing what parts of the brain it affected was not helpful in this endeavour.

At any rate, it made the magical version – or those near magical areas - intelligent enough to hide and hunt in packs.

Gods alone knew what the Muggles attributed it to. All he knew was it was a pain in the arse. Agerta, for instance, had had two buddies of questionable origins and gender, and they had clearly planned an ambush of whoever entered the kitchen.

Unfortunately for them, he hadn't been having a Good Day. The Alleys and the magical residential areas had been evacuated by Kingsley as soon as humanly possible, but enough had slipped in infected and hidden once turned, not to mention pounced on looters that later tried to take advantage, that walking around corners had become a dangerous occupation for anyone trying to scavenge in them.

Corpses trying to hug and eat you at the same time was not and never had been his idea of fun, even when it had just been Inferi. More than six had tried in the two hours before he'd gotten to Agerta's abode.

Looking over for anything useful, he came to the conclusion that there wasn't much more to the bungalow. Still, he couldn't help the shudder as his eye caught on a particularly ugly cat staring at him from a vine wreathed tea pot. Agerta had probably been a very nice old witch, but her fondness for pink and cat themed table ware reminded him of Umbridge far too much.

"Cats, cats everywhere." He couldn't help muttering in disgust as he turned the pan-cake faced teapot so it wasn't facing him – creepy, death glaring enchanted feline growling in displeasure–

It was then that it glowed a sickly shade of green, and the familiar sensation of a hook embedded itself in his navel, the living room disappearing into a vortex of colour.

 _Well, fuck._


	2. Impossible? Bah!

Impossible? Bah.

It had been noted many times by his friends that if something impossible was going to happen, it usually happened around him. In a parody of Sods Law, if it could go wrong, it usually did: but on the other side of the coin, it usually resolved itself too. Though not without some hard graft and usually emotional or physical harm on his part.

Some called it extremely lucky: it never seemed to matter what scrapes he got into, he got himself out. He called it extremely annoying. It was, after all, the same luck that normally got him in those situations in the first place.

Case in point: only he would be able to express a hatred of cats whilst holding one of three dozen apparently harmless tea pots, _coincidentally_ an international Port-key and just _by chance_ that very phrase being the trigger for it's activation. It figured that he would merely be _touching_ the port-key in question, made of porcelain, and it would smash to the ground the moment he arrived at it's destination. It would _also_ be just his luck to be dumped in a nature reserve with no sight or sound of running water, and in a country with which he was unfamiliar.

What it said about his life that he was more resigned to it than having any normal reaction, like say _panicking_ , was something he was very careful to not contemplate.

So, here he was, hungry, tired and generally frustrated two weeks later, walking through Zombie infested woods (having walked past a proud sign proclaiming ' _Welcome to Georgia Park!'_ sporting the American flag), which though it made for admittedly good stress relief was still, in of itself, annoying because _how the fuck was this his life-?!_

The Zombie – male, more akin to a mud monster than man - trying to sneak up on him and doing a bad impression of a snake unhinging it's jaw got the brunt of that thought, in the form of a dagger sinking in it's eye socket. He didn't even pause when he stomped past it, just summoning the blade back wandlessly with a stiff spine and glaring at an inoffensive tree.

He was, he knew, probably over-reacting. It wasn't, after all, the tea-pot collecting witch's fault, any-more than it was his or the Zombie-stooges she'd had with her. Most likely, she'd probably charmed the port-key to find some lynxes or something, and never expected a stranger to touch it. If he had to blame anyone, it would probably some version or deity representing fate. The bitch had, after all, ensured there was a prophecy dooming him to fighting a war before he'd even been born.

He wouldn't put it past it to do this on a whim as well.

The atmosphere of the woods wasn't exactly helping either. He could hear the rustle of life, and his magic could taste it, but equally the feel of _death undeath_ was pervasive: clearly America had been hit just as hard by the virus as England had been, here at least. And the animals were reacting to it by being quiet, cautious and very, very wary. It made the towering forest unnaturally silent, like the calm before a storm. It didn't help that his instincts, partially blended with his Animagus forms, were alternatively trying to tell him to get the hell out of dodge and maul something in an absolute rage.

Ah, the joy of having multiple forms: carnivores were confrontational, herbivores flighty, and his human instincts on high alert. If it wasn't for the magical exhaustion of an under-powered Port-key which had used his core to fuel the journey, he would have already used one of the forms.

Certainly, travel would have been faster, and unless zombies could fly, much safer.

Actually, better not tempt fate. It'd probably start giving them wings just to annoy him further.

Thirty three Zombies later and only marginally calmer, he came across something that wasn't indigenous wildlife and fauna, nor intruding Shambler.

 _Shambler_. Huh. He kinda liked that name. Much more original than Zombie, at any rate. Zombie was too cliché anyway.

Instead, crouched behind a bush and aiming what looked like a well-used crossbow, was a man. Normally he wouldn't have paid this any mind, but two facts made this particular encounter stand out. The first was that after several days of not seeing another soul (almost literally, Mage Sight had been hard to turn off since one of the artefact incidents), and not knowing precisely where Georgia was in relation to the rest of the country, let alone muggle travel links or the American version of the ministry, it seemed prudent to ask for directions. The second, probably more urgent, reason was that said crossbow was pointed at _him_.

Normal people would try to calm the situation down. He was anything but, and pissed off to boot.

So instead of blustering and trying to get on the guy's good side, maybe make a doomed effort to appear non-threatening despite holding a bloody dagger, he raised a sardonic eyebrow.

"You're gonna get cramp if you stay crouched like that too long."

The tanned crossbow wielder gave him a scowl but didn't reply.

Well, this was a whole new level of awkward. Three, two, one…. And nope, not a twitch. Clearly the man wasn't feeling very talkative, or friendly, and quite frankly he had better things to do with his time, he decided with a huff.

Like find a way off of this bloody country and back to Grimmauld Place. God's alone knew what reasons the Order was pulling out of the air for the delay.

He dismissed the man as unimportant, or at least not an actively threatening threat (possibly the closest he came to friendly before knowing a person, these days), and walked the perimeter of the small clearing with the intent of going past him.

Only to hear a brief snapping sound, the distinctive and getting closer by the second whoosh of an arrow in flight, and to have a bolt bury itself by his head in a tree. It was instinct alone that had him freezing and making it miss him by more than two inches.

He turned a dark look to the now threatening threat.

Oh, it was well aimed: even if he'd continued walking it wouldn't have hit him: flown dangerously close to his nose, yes, but not fatally. It was a warning shot. Which was the only reason he didn't respond in kind.

"You ain't going that way." Ah good, a yank. Incredibly to the point (almost literally, hah) given what he'd heard from the cupboard under the stairs from Vernon's business partners and the people in his life, but still, the stereotype was one that was hard to shake.

"Yes I am." Was his grumpy reply, glaring at the man. Who had already reloaded.

And he was if it killed him, dammit. The Point Me spell had zeroed in on the direction with alacrity when given the instruction 'Civilisation'. Meaning, in this case, people not likely to kill him on sight who would be willing to give him directions, and wouldn't try to steal from him in the process.

He carefully didn't ponder that it was the _only_ direction it showed in a fifty mile radius. The consequences of that realisation were not something he wanted to deal with.

The instruction 'nearest Port', meaning ' _working boat on the Atlantic coast'_ had been pointing in directions too numerous to count, but he knew better than to try. 'Nearest Flu connection' and 'Port-Key' hadn't even twitched.

"Nah, you ain't."

"I am, because I need to. Now you either shoot me, Yank, or let me be on my fucking way. I haven't got time to argue like a –"

His rant was broken when a rustling sound reached his ears. One step, two step, three step. Shuffling steps. He glanced into the wood and was unsurprised to see faint movement through the foliage some hundred feet away.

"Oh for crying out loud." He pinched the bridge of his noise.

He wasn't going to throw a dagger until he was certain it was a Shambler. All it needed was the sound effects, and he could, but until then he wasn't going to risk injuring a survivor of this bloody plague.

And…. There it was! The patented rattle-wet-moan. Nicely giving him the location of the head.

He didn't even need to look to throw, hearing the thud of the now very much dead corpse and resulting silence. This time no bolt met him when he moved into the tree line, instead soft footsteps followed: there was a careful, measuring stillness at his back. One he ignored in favour of yanking the dagger free and wiping it on the corpses clothes.

Get that gunk on his jeans when he could avoid it? No way in hell. He'd been covered in enough questionable substances in his life to know better, thank you very much.

He moved to step past the man, but stilled with a tense back when he heard a _click._

The yank was starting to get on his nerves.

When he turned round though, it was nice to see the crossbow aimed at the ground and the safety apparently on. Nice, but the unyielding stance of the other man not so much.

"Look, I don't care what you think I'm going to do or say, or how much you want a pissing contest, I really don't have the time or the energy to deal with bullshit." Nor the patience. He hadn't had much to begin with today. "So, if you'll excuse me-."

The other man snorted, and it was an act of will not to start shouting or use him as target practice. Hermione would berate him for it, he was sure. She always seemed to find out when he gave the politicians in the Ministry a taste of their own medicine, and he wouldn't be surprised if she was spy-scrying on him even now. Especially now.

"What you looking for?" Came the question, and wasn't that a burr of an accent. Well, if the sign hadn't convinced him, this had. Dorothy, follow the yellow brick road.

"Candy Canes." He dead-panned with an incredulous look. "What do you think?"

Instead of making a jab at him, the guy started moving. In the direction he had been going.

"C'mon." Was the nearly muttered direction. "See what Officer Eastwood thinks of you."

Harry nearly said fuck it then and there.

It was a bad sign when an _Officer_ was the last sign of civilisation in a hundred mile radius. In his experience – albeit limited to the Aurors, and with a few exceptions – the ones in charge tended to be the dumbest of the lot.


	3. Irony

Irony

They emerged through the undergrowth into a basin of rock that stretched quite a way into the distance and resembled cliffs underneath the foliage. A quarry of some sort, he was sure. The hunter was silent company, seemingly not watching him despite the intense focus he could feel from him.

By then, it was starting to get dark, and the lights of a camp where clear to see from the higher position they'd entered.

He'd actually stopped on seeing that. Whatever possessed the bunch of idiots to light a visible _fire of all things?_ While in the open, not screening the light? Crossbow man had paused too, though more because he had, he was sure, than in surprise at the stupidity.

Which, really, didn't bode well.

By the time they'd picked through the forest between them and the camp, killing a handful of curious Shamblers along the way (and if that wasn't a bad sign of the camps security, he didn't know what was) he was more than happy that the artefact incidents had permanently branded his eyes with Animagi traits – seeing in the dark (thank you, Moony the 2nd) and being able to see in extreme detail (Hawk-like vision for a reason) made it incredibly easy to avoid tripping.

Though from the crossbow man's gaze, the slight reflective effect even the strongest glamour couldn't mask was making itself known.

His first sight of the camp, following the hunter in, was a fist trying to fly into his face. Thankfully he was aware enough to stop at ducking out of reach, though his hand hovered over the hilt of his dagger carefully.

"Who the hell are you?"

The bald man was loud, brash, in his face and spoiling for a fight. Clearly, civilisation wasn't all rainbows and unicorns. In fact, it looked rather sleepless and stressful by the tension and bags under the groups eyes.

"Fantastic." He nearly sighed, itching to pull his daggers out again. Because the Yank clearly had one hell of a sense of humour if this was 'Officer Eastwood'. And despite himself he caught a twitch of a grin at crossbow man's mouth. "I must say, American's standards of hospitality have fallen significantly since my last visit if this is an Officer."

Which had, admittedly, been to MACUSA under the guise of diplomacy, meeting a head of department. But the point still stood.

Yeah, Crossbow guy was fighting a smile. Bald guy bristled and looked ready to shout again, but the crossbow wielding man got there first.

"Nah, that aint an Officer: that's the deputy."

Suddenly he was fighting the urge to hum _I shot the sheriff._ One look at the annoyed bald man, and he could tell it wouldn't be a good idea. The man looked one push away from violence.

"I feel like I should be worried."

The partial grin he received in reply was not reassuring.

"Daryl! What the fuck? Who is he, why'd you bring him here?!"

"Don't know." The newly dubbed Daryl shrugged. "Found him in the woods, killin' Walkers. He was heading this way anyway."

This brought the attention back to him again, and it was an act of will not to shift under several sets of intent eyes. Still, he'd commanded raids scarier than this: a group of muggles with temper issues was hardly going to put him off his game for long.

"Who are you and why'd you come here?" Ah, lovely, and there was the threat he'd been expecting. Except this time, it was a shotgun pointed at his belly from one of the group and the bald man surreptitiously inching for a gun holstered to his hip.

"Names James, and I'm looking for a way back to England. Failing that, a map pointing the way to New York would be lovely." He smiled politely at them, watching the fallout. It ranged from incredulousness to utter shock. Apparently they hadn't heard his earlier comment, and not realised he was British, that or had been more focused on the fact he was a stranger. "Wonderful to meet you all."

He would've gone for a handshake, but he didn't think it would be well received.

From the reaction that the greeting garnered, they were simply questioning his sanity. Wouldn't be the first time.

The bald man seemed to calm down at the announcement, or at least not be so openly hostile. And the gun wasn't pointed to his face, at least.

"NY's a city. It'll be crawling." One of the hard-eyed women noted. Blonde, light eyed in the fire's circle. She had an armful of clothes that had apparently been part sorted before the explosive reaction to his entrance.

"Shut up!" One of the other women seemed to hiss. Brown haired, shorter, not harder as such but certainly more closed off. She seemed to be inching toward the RV with a protective stance, though with what weapon she intended to fight him off with he had no idea.

From the way she stood, she wasn't exactly a martial arts expert.

"What's new about that?" he replied with a shrug, never taking his eyes off the two main threats. While he could use magic, he rather hoped he wouldn't have to. After all, no telling how effective MACUSA would be in enforcing the statute, and if he could sense the residual magic in Magical Zombies then there was always the off-chance they would sense the magic used.

With the intelligence of Magical Zombies, it was better not to risk it. The Port-key alone might have been enough to draw them in if there were any nearby.

"She's right. You'd be committing suicide." Baldy spoke up (and no, there was no way he was calling him Officer Eastwood – no matter how much the bluster seemed to fit the picture).

"Unfortunately, I've not much of a choice." And he really hadn't. Not unless he wanted someone (no guesses as to who) to come to America and drag him back by his ear. And that was something he was rather keen to avoid.

The group of survivors seemed to weigh him for a moment, and then baldy let his gun hand fall from it's ready position.

"I'm Shane. Been keeping this group of misfits up and going for a while now. We're headed to Atlanta." A hand was extended to shake, and he was amused to note that the handshake was turned more into a hand squeeze. One he returned with equal pressure and a sardonic smile. "'Sposed to be a safe zone, maybe someone can help get you back there."

"James. Headed to England at the soonest convenience." Shane seemed to grimace at that, almost sympathetically. "Got caught out by unexpected delays."

Let them assume from that what they would. For now, it seemed to relax them a little.

"Walkers do that." Shane agreed with a bitter twist of his own. "Ya got food, water, skills, weapons?"

"I've got enough for myself. Weapons are mine and mine alone. Know how to use them, know how to care for em." Not that they'd recognise half of them or believe they fitted into an expanded dragon-hide satchel enchanted to never fall off or break, but that was for him to know and them never to find out. "Got some skill as an army medic, survived so far hunting my own game."

None of which was actually a lie. The Order this side of the veil had been much more pragmatic and progressive, especially in incorporating muggle teachings. Though Alberta Dumbledore the hard-edged, veteran Spinster had certainly been a surprise. Much more an army unit than the one back home, actually incorporating an awful lot of the training from Black Ops and the like. They'd had roles, though his had been the most Jack-of-all trades… Aside from Hermione's, of course.

They had to be. Tom on this side had been more steeped in Dark Magic and cunning than before, a brilliant strategist to boot. It had truly been a _war_ on this side rather than a skirmish or three.

Not that things had been all roses and rainbows there, either.

"It'll be good to have someone who knows his way around a med-kit round here." The older man noted with apparent relief. "We know some basic First Aid, but that's 'bout it."

Shane didn't seem too happy with his answer – reserving judgement, perhaps.

But with a nod, that seemed to be that.


	4. Scout's Honour

Scout's honour

The next few days were… interesting.

He was careful to raise a ward-stone in the centre of the fire and let it flare when no-one was looking. It was a temporary measure – enough for maybe three weeks, to just cover the camp and provide a little resistance against wandering Shamblers – or Walkers. Whatever epithet the corpses went by, it would give a warning and it would hold a dozen or so at bay for a day or so before it broke.

He noted that Andrea – the blonde from earlier, Amy, and Daryl all seemed to shiver at that, and added a mental note not to use magic around them unless necessary. They might not have bright enough cores to show as magical to Mage Sight, but the fact they felt it alone showed they had potential to, if not use it, then detect it. Oddly enough, the man who'd introduced himself as Jim – a quiet man by nature, it seemed – had looked directly at him the moment he'd triggered it.

With something akin to comprehension.

He would have to talk to the man at some point: unlike the others, Jim had the brighter life force and the right channels. Possibly a squib, or a latent talent. Either way, the man knew something of what he'd done. And more interestingly, didn't rat him out.

His role in the group was at best undetermined. He was there temporarily, and they all knew it. So he ghosted along, helping with what chores and tasks he could. Entertaining the kids, keeping watch, washing, mending broken clothes and hunting in the evenings well into the night. He knew he was safer than any of the others – the perks of seeing in the dark and super senses – and even if they didn't take his word for it, they didn't fight him on it after the first time he'd dragged a buck back and gave them a (mild) tongue lashing about the visible fire, having ended three Shamblers far too close to the group that night alone.

At any rate, he was himself twitchy about staying in the camp. It was a beacon for Shamblers and the bad kind of survivor alike, noisy and bright, and though he trusted his Ward to give warning –Merlin knew he'd had practice and experience enough using it – he didn't trust the group to heed that warning or not be stupid about attracting more Shambler attention than it could repel.

His secondary form saw a lot of use at night the moment he his Core rejuvenated enough for him to use it. It was safer sleeping in the higher bows of a tree, out of reach and small enough to blend, than on the ground in a bedroll. And as a Hawk, it would be very hard to trap him in said tree even if the Shamblers tried to mob the bottom. Sure, the solitary and territorial instincts that came with the shape and lingered for hours afterwards were a pain in the arse, but better than the alternative.

But he made sure to appear at camp during the day, if only to keep up appearances.

So he sat down for a bowl of what could possibly be called over-cooked stew most nights, and observed.

The group seemed to work… Just.

Daryl was obviously the only hunter there, though there had been mutters of a 'Merle' hunting as well, yet to return. Quiet on his feet, observant without making it obvious. The crossbow seemed to be a permanent attachment, and one he was skilled at using. And that wasn't even counting the number of blades hidden. Didn't say much, but then, that was a virtue that seemed to be lacking from most of the group. He had a feeling that he and Daryl were going to get along famously, barring a few sticking points. Merle was apparently an arsehole of the highest order, but a valuable one. He would reserve judgement until he met the man. Shane, after all, didn't seem the most reliable judge of character to go by.

The man was the leader, in the sense that he was listened to. It was a hard-nosed kind of leadership better suited to military units, where men listened without question: this group were civilian's and scared by it instead. Oh, they trusted him, to a point: but the man obviously made most of them uncomfortable. And given the edge of violence Shane seemed to carry, he could hardly disagree. The man wouldn't hesitate to leave the group behind if he felt it was to his benefit. The only people Shane seemed to truly care about was the brown haired woman Lori (whom he was enjoying nearly nightly trips to the woods with) – outspoken, but in a bossy way, convinced she was right – and her son, Carl. Carl reminded him so much of Teddy it kind of hurt, so he avoided the kid on principle where he could.

Dale seemed to be the conscience of the group, naively hopeful. Practically minded, but at the same time far too willing to see the good in everything. In that, he at least helped to balance Shane out a bit; seemed to smooth the cracks the more ruthless man's attitude caused and mitigate some of the worst of it through offering council.

Not that Harry thought much of his council, truly, but in the end this group weren't his to lead, or his responsibility.

Jacqui and T-Dog, though a part of the group, seemed to be followers through choice though perhaps not natural leaning. Whatever strong opinions they had they kept to themselves, working to the betterment of the group without causing friction where they could. That wasn't to say they didn't have opinions– but at least they were intelligent about how they voiced them. More often than not, they seemed to agree with Dale. Andrea and Amy, blonde and willow-thin sisters, sat attached to the old man's hip as well. They didn't say much of anything, and usually got lumped with 'Lady Chores' from Lori, who's opinion of woman's work seemed to extend to the thirties and fail to progress from there.

The Spanish – or possibly Mexican? – family stayed on the edges: helped with the chores, but they were their own unit. There for safety in numbers but keeping a careful distance. It was clear that they didn't agree with Shane most of the time, but kept the peace and passively resisted when they felt it important. Glenn, an Asian looking kid, seemed to follow their lead but was personable enough to try and get on with everyone in the group. The scavenger seemed to be another mediating influence, always seeking to simmer tempers and cheer others up.

Which left the Peletiers. Ed was a nasty piece of work, and one he would happily see immolated. He was sure it was a sentiment he wasn't alone in. A wife beater and arsehole of the highest order (no judgement reserved whatsoever), Harry didn't need to using legimency to see that Ed thought Carol was his property and Sophia didn't even register, despite being his daughter below ten years of age. He spent as little time as he could with Ed, tried to help Carol where possible – the bruises were visible through how she moved – and played with Sophia as much as he could. Tried to encourage both out of the cage Ed had crafted around them. In the end, it was their choice to make. He just had to make them aware there _was_ a choice.

Shane had yet to tell him to do _anything_ , or even glance at him aside from the occasional bit of scorn when he saw Harry down by the quarry river with the women. Washing, after all, was not a new chore for him: the stone not so different from a washing board. Also, since none of the women knew how to fight, it seemed pertinent that someone who _did_ know stuck around. Other than basic politeness, none seemed to quite know what to think about his on and off presence in the camp, or his apparent need for solitude: some accepted it, some wary of it, others tried to question him on it and got frustrated at his vague answers and silence. Others – like Daryl – simply didn't seem to care one way or another.

Harry was both liking and hating his more acute senses: on one hand, it was invaluable to know what was going on, and people seemed to be an awful lot more forthcoming when they didn't think anyone could hear them. On the other, some of those secrets and inanities he could do without hearing, seeing or smelling (Lori, Shane and Ed being the main offenders there), and the less said about month's worth of the inability to shower, the better.

It was the second week when he got restless enough to go without a reason.

The ward had been silent for those days, mostly because he had the feeling most of Daryls 'Hunting' trips weren't for food, much like his own. Merlin, but that man's work went unappreciated.

"Checking the traps." Was the low announcement as he rose, making sure to grab his bow as he did. One of the few skills he'd really enjoyed, archery. It had been hard trying to find the right wood for the job, harder still to shape, but he remembered his lessons well. And well… In the ward, magic use was automatically hidden and dissipated. After all, it wasn't only the muggle-magical hybrid that was probably attracted to Magic use. It was actually primarily what made Inferi attack: the hunger for _life energy_ , of which pure Magic was the ultimate expression.

"Good hunting." Came Shane's snarky comment, but without half the bite it probably would have had before the plague struck.

For a man who never had to hunt for his food, the ex-police officer had an awful lot of disdain for those feeding him. There was little game out here except rabbits and squirrel, the rare deer getting rarer as Shambler's scared them off. And the group's supplies were scarcer.

The man was going to bite himself in the arse with that attitude later. Or get bitten.

He was unsurprised to hear Daryl fall into step behind him, possibly as Shane's behest but more likely not. The hunter did not take orders well, and from what he could gather, neither did the mysterious Merle.

He made sure they were a good distance in the wood before he turned his head slightly to address the man.

"How many?"

Daryl gave him a measuring look, before looking forward again.

"'bout a dozen."

Less than he'd thought, more than he'd hoped. Bugger all, but the group were going to have to learn to survive without people picking up their slack.

"Close?"

"Close." The man replied, edgy. _Too close_ , goes unsaid but heard never-the-less.

"Eight so far." He mused. Twenty in the space of three days. But he'd been sticking close to the quarry walls, trying to catch the edible critters hiding in corners, not the Shamblers. There was no telling how many could get through the quarry at once, not with the road as a shining beacon. "Fucking _idiots_."

It was a useless grumble. But one he felt the need to voice. Because they were all but calling them in, advertising. And where there was one Shambler, there was always _more_. And more. The cities would run dry of fresh meat and they'd start going further afield; maybe it had already started. The Ward was good as a warning system, but little else: too temporary for anything stronger.

"More of 'em than last time, then." The hunter to his side noted, seemingly absently.

And that was Not Good.

"…We need to move. But not to Atlanta." Because if Atlanta was a safe zone, this quarry would have been flooded by now with Shamblers trying to breach it. The fact they were moving _away_ said everything that needed to be said. "Shane doesn't take too well to suggestions though."

And that he didn't. He seemed to have the same syndrome as Lori, too hell bent on believing he was right to listen to other's suggestions. And right now, Shane thought Atlanta was a Safe Zone… Or at least, safer. Though even the leader seemed to have his doubts, not even having ordered a scouting mission to the place yet.

The hunter seemed to grunt an agreement with that assessment.

Agree, and have about as much clue as how to fix it as he did. Or maybe couldn't care less. To be fair, if it wasn't for the Kids, Harry would probably have been in the same boat.

He was distracted by a tree with a diagonal marking. Ah, he'd set one up here. It was with care that he approached, hidden carefully behind the tree because he could hear movement. Too large to be any bunny. Hope turned to disgust when he saw what the trap had sprung on though.

A Shambler – once a probably pretty, medium height blonde woman, in a filthy summer dress that was torn to ribbons - stared at him and started jerking, clawing to get at them with a desperate kind of hunger regardless of the gored leg caught in the snare, only falling still as one of his arrows pierced through the forehead. Merlin bless reinforced war arrows and horse bows.

Not so much the brain that coated them on removal, though.

"How many?"

"Several Snares, couple of pitfalls." He answered just as quietly. The pitfalls more for the Shamblers, though apparently snares did the job just as well. If not for the intended target.

They walked and worked in silence. By the time they made it to the last trap – this one Daryls, and thankfully not Shambler infested – they had a good brace of rabbits and smaller mammals, and had killed too many Shamblers for him to feel remotely comfortable being near without the ward. Still there was enough meat to last maybe a couple of days, provided the place they were hung was hidden: this group of survivors seemed to have little to no idea about rationing.

Still, moving on was becoming more urgent: if the group wouldn't go, Harry himself soon would. Hermione and the others were still waiting, and his own patience was starting to wear thin.

Not his group, not his responsibility. Or so he told himself.

It was on the way back and two more corpses later when the interesting bit happened.

Because the steps that started to follow them about halfway were far too even to be Shambler, too bipedal to be animal. And far too quiet to be any of the campers.

Daryl didn't even tense, but there was no conclusion to be drawn from that: the man held his crossbow at the ready like always. So, it became a toss up: lead the person back to the camp, or take them out then and there. It was a decision the Hunter didn't seem about to make.

But Harry was many things: going out of his way to intentionally cause undeserved harm was not among them. And until it was clear just who is following, that person had the potential to attempt to cause it. And the group would be less than willing and capable of dealing with it. Shane would just try to kill them on sight, no doubt.

So he started to slow. Just enough to make the steps miss time for a moment, before matching their pace again. Enough to make the rustling fade a bit more as their follower noted the change.

To start to close the gap, inch by inch.

They were a mile or so from Camp Caper when he stopped entirely. The watching eyes had kept a respectable distance, but were still stalking them. Because if he had to name it, that's what it felt like: a predatory regard, not hostile, not friendly. Measuring. Waiting.

Daryl stopped with him, an unreadable glance his only acknowledgement of the action.

"You want a rabbit, you're welcome to it. But you'll have trouble catching it through a tree." He announced to the open air. And wasn't that the ultimate expression of a bleeding heart in these times – freely given food.

Not that it didn't come with tactical advantages. Hero complex he may have had, but survival came first.

The follower had stopped with them. Stopped, and been utterly silent. No Shambler, this one. Living, wary, and all too quiet to be anything but a survivor, and probably a skilled one. Though Daryl's lack of action had given him an inkling of just who it might be. Unless the hunter was performing a subtle test.

"An' what if I want more than a coney?" The gruff words were harshly spoken, shattering the quiet. In contrast to the almost silent steps the man made on coming out behind his cover. Still, Daryl didn't tense or even turn to face the voice fully. Oddly, he almost seemed to _relax_ , a hidden tension dropping out of his shoulders _._

And that… That cinched it.

"Sure." He replied neutrally, eyeing the broad shape that could only be the much vaunted Merle Dixon. Accent, check. General look, check. Daryl's reactions, check. "From what I've heard, you've been feeding the Gannet's longer than I have."

There was a ghost of a smirk at the apparently younger Dixon's mouth, so small he almost missed it. Merle was apparently the more expressive of the two, snorting a laugh in a way that reminded of him of Ron with his mouth full and under a tickling hex.

Oddly, even American's had stereotypes for themselves. _Redneck_ , were the not so quiet comments of the camp. He didn't pretend to understand everything the term entailed, but the tone alone reminded him of the way some folk in the Wizarding World said _Muggle, mud-blood, werewolf_. Like a 'Redneck' was something disgusting or beneath notice, a bad smell or mangy dog that could turn violent at the slightest provocation. Daryl seemed to take it in stride, but then he had the impression very little could really back-foot the distant man. Merle, from decoding Shane's mutters, had given as good as he'd got.

Daryl, apparently reassured that no-one was going to get stabbed or shot, started to move off, and Harry found himself falling into step almost automatically. It was instinctual to keep an eye out on both Dixons, and their surroundings. They'd lingered too long in one spot as it was, and Shambler's were rarely slow to smell new food.

"So where you from, Pretty Boy? Hell of an accent ya got there." An eyebrow climbed of it's own accord. Apparently Merle was both chatty and crass. Though he had yet to actually be insulted.

Strike one for Shane's theory of utter arseholedom.

"Kansas, apparently." The deadpan reply was out before he could stop it. "Seem to have lost Toto along the yellow brick road."

Merle snorted again.

"Didn't peg ya for a Trannie."

His eye twitched, irritated. While it wasn't exactly insulting, it hit closer to the mark than he prayed the Hunter would ever know. Some of the side effects of his luck-driven accidents had been incredibly… odd. Thankfully short-lived, but _odd._ He now knew without a doubt what he would have looked, lived and been treated like if he had been born a girl.

It wasn't something that had ever have been on his bucket list, but he had found no satisfaction in adding to his 'crazy unintended shit' list either.

The silence was companionable, or at least as much as it could be in Shambler infested woodland, and they were making steady progress.

"Merle Dixon, drifter." The other man introduced himself mid jump, landing effortlessly despite his apparent bulk.

"James, Lord. Pleasure." He offered in return, attention half on what sounded suspiciously _not_ like the wind in the leaves, a fair distance to their right.

"Lord pleasure? Your mama must've hated you, sparkle-pants."

 _That_ sufficiently distracted him. He frowned, though not truly disgruntled. He had the feeling that Merle's idea of conversation was a sarky tennis match, complete with a wide array of creative insults. He'd grown up with the Weasleys, in the presence of a more often than not stressed out Hermione. If the man wanted to match wits, Harry would be more than happy to oblige.

It'd been a while since the last Word War with Mione, anyway.

"Sarky git." He snorted. "Make your mind up. Either I'm bent _or_ a Trannie, don't even want to imagine the headache of both at once." No, no he did not. Babbling on a broom-stick, an unwilling foray into just one had been confusing enough.

Whatever Merle said while laughing, a booming kind of laugh that he very nearly Silencio'd out of irritation, was lost as that same sibilant rustle sounded again. He stopped walking almost automatically, keeping his ear directed to the direction it was coming from. Because now it was louder, and bigger: either there was a very stupid cow coming, ignorant of the danger noise could bring, or more than one something. And in these woods, that something was most likely dead and hungry.

"What's up, pretty boy?" Not teasing now. His stopping had obviously tipped them off, and when he tensed to listen he could almost feel the two Dixon's trying to ramp up their own awareness.

"We got company coming." Merle was blank faced, clearly sceptical. The sound was too far away for normal senses, so Harry could even understand why. Daryl, however, had hunted with him before and knew that his ears were keener than most people's. Not the reason why, but the Hunter seemed to accept it as a boon to the hunt and leave it at that.

"How many?" Almost like déjà vu, he smiled an empty sort of smile at the quiet man. The kind that usually accompanied the news ' _I'm sorry but we're bailiffs.'_ on the door-step.

"Making too much noise to get an accurate count." Which had a very large chance of meaning too many to count. Could be a feeding frenzy, could be a small herd of Shamblers, could be bears. But the feeling of _death undeath_ prickling at the back of his neck was getting stronger, and heavier than when it was just one or two. "Too many to leave alone, moving as a pack."

Daryl got a look on his face that spoke of long-suffering. Merle just snorted.

And that was the major problem. The undead didn't stop to rest, were tenacious in following fresh meat. If they weren't dealt with, they'd be bringing them straight back to camp. He sighed, breaking the almost silence, before starting towards a relatively tall tree.

"Stupid idiots." He grumbled under his breath, hooking into the bark as he started to climb it. "Walker free, haven't seen any in _ages._ They don't come this far out. _"_

Yeah, _right_.

"Stupid, delusional blind _yanks_." Was he frustrated? Just a little.

He was unsurprised when he heard Daryl making his way up the tree opposite his – it wasn't the first time they'd hunted or had to clear a group of Shamblers together, and the Hunter knew the plan from last time. Though he was surprised when he noted Merle doing the same.

He could tell when the Shamblers got close enough for the Dixon's to hear, the moans starting to carry on the wind, because both tensed. And with his eyesight, he got the clearest view through the branches of his temporary shelter.

A dozen, maybe twenty if there were stragglers. From all walks of life before their turning, and clearly not the freshest. His bow was to hand automatically, though the angle was awkward: it was perhaps 40, 45 pounds. He hadn't really measured the poundage when he made it, only ensured he could draw and hold it if needs be. With the arrows he'd made – complete with wide heads – it would be enough to puncture the skull and take a fair portion of brain with it.

 _Nock._ A slow, steady breath, eyes on the those in the back of the group. Herd? Pack? Who knew.

 _Draw._ Fletched feathers resting near his cheek, and damn was that angle going to get annoying. Still, thank Merlin for a Seekers balance. This would be impossible otherwise. Little wind, good distance to fly, and the bow pulled a little to the right.

He loosed and was nocking another arrow without thought, watching the large Shambler fall with the fletching nearly buried behind it's eyes. From there, it was instinct to aim and shoot: taking the larger of the pack out first. The ones that could shake the trees badly, that would make it hard to kill them up close. He saw a couple fall to Daryl's bolts as they got closer, becoming agitated and confused with their own falling down in their midst, the tally somewhere near four to two.

By the time the Shamblers made it to the clearing proper, the pack had been thinned down to about six, though there were more rustling in the bushes. By then the corpses were more than agitated; hungry and angry they were near stomping, darting in different directions. Sensing danger, he could only theorise, but not knowing where the source was.

And then a snarl sounded that was far too vicious to be confused.

"Well _hello_ , you poor bastard." Harry breathed softly, staring in all too aware milky white eyes.

Because one of the Shamblers had looked at the arrow, looked at the tree, and put two and two together when it came to direction. It was the same kind of blind intelligence he'd seen in Agerta, and any number of Diagon's current undead residents. Cunning in the way of animals.

Whoever or whatever the man had been beforehand, he had been magical.

The Mage-Zombie lurched towards his tree stupidly fast, almost tripping over it's own feet in it's haste. The sound of it's outraged growls seemed to attract the others that were left, starting to bang on his tree with snarls now they had a target and were close enough to smell dinner. The normal ones were just clawing at the bark, trying to haul themselves up, but his focus was on the magical one. Because it was trying to _climb_ not simply pull itself up. Scrabbling for the lower branches with rotten fingers, eyes focused hatefully on him and oh-so- _determined._

 _Nock_. The fletching brushed his fingers as the arrow slotted easily.

 _Aim_. The well oiled wood didn't even creak, and he paid no mind to the strange angle. Simply adjusted his posture to take the draw length into account.

"Requiescat in pace." The Latin emerged without his conscious direction, flavoured by magic, following on the heels of an instinctive release. And oddly, those eyes almost seemed _accepting_ , for all the hungry fire that filled them until their owner dropped to the ground, unmoving.

Between him and Daryl, the stragglers were quickly finished off: they held for a breath after the last one fell, listening for any more A couple wandered past, easily picked out against the back-light of the Hunter's Moon, but soon enough all that he could hear was the breathing of the wind and the Dixon's. Getting out of the tree was simple, and from there he automatically moved to gather his arrows in. Merle seemed to grumble up a storm climbing out of his tree, the hunter apparently not a fan of 'being a fuckin' monkey-boy.'.

He left the magical one for last, bending over and yanking with little care for preserving the rotten features. The Shambler was wearing muggle clothes, but it was the armband that tipped him off. Because striped with the American flag, the dirty scrap of cloth had the MACUSA logo standing out starkly despite all the filth.

And magically embroidered, gods bless charms work, were the man's name, rank, date of birth and date of death.

No, he had never thought that a zombie apocalypse would be real, never had to think about the consequences of one. But looking at that downed Shambler, the emblem of MACUSA and magical version of a dog-tag clenched in hand, he couldn't help thinking that the snarky american auror named Albert – 'Call me Al, Dude' – brought the scale of it home to him in a way that even Diagon Alley hadn't.

Because that meant MACUSA had probably fallen as well.


	5. Tickle the Sleeping Dragon

Tickle the Sleeping Dragon

He didn't join the group that night. Instead, he sat in the shadow of Dale's camper van, facing out to the woods they had emerged from a scant half hour before.

Watchful, wary. And in no mood to put up with the majority of Camp Caper's residents.

It was a mixture of disgust for how they were acting, and the need to plan.

The other hunters seemed to do the same, though for a different reason. The idiots had avoided Merle like the plague. The man himself had clearly expected nothing less, sneering in the face of their glares, the two Dixon's sitting down by their own tent and fire once they'd dropped the fruits of their labour with the women under Lori's thumb.

He would be lying if he said part of his staying away wasn't partly motivated by the same. He saw no need to try and play at being friendly and trusting, though drew the line there: as much as he wanted to disappear into the woods, it would only breed distrust on their part. And a group divided was not an efficient one.

Still, he'd kept some of the smaller mammals back. Deep in shadow, he'd skinned and gutted them almost automatically, cutting the meat into strips and laying them across a simple twig grill. He'd have to ask to borrow a fire, but it wouldn't take long to turn them into jerky.

He nearly snorted.

And that's what the group would be if they stayed here much longer; the eighteen strong pack of Shamblers had made that point abundantly clear. Shane was of the opinion that there weren't enough Walker's up here to be a threat, that they never 'came this far': neither he nor Daryl had really disagreed, at least so he assumed from the Hunter's silence. Providing they were systematically killed when spotted, the numbers had been manageable so far without endangering Camp Caper. But this pack...

That was worrying. The Shambler's were moving _away_ from Atlanta, in progressively larger groups and numbers, and worse, the Magical-infected were taking the lead. Grouping more together. The Shambler's behaviour had pointed to the MACUSA agent being something akin to the leader, determining direction. Exhibiting behaviours the other Shamblers were _copying_.

As sharp snap, twigs breaking, in the woods he was facing made his focus sharpen, eyes immediately scanning the tree-line. The sound was a ways out, far enough not to worry over if it didn't come closer, but the feeling of _storm_ -coming was hard to shake.

And Al, the man with a sense of humour so far below the gutter you were looking up at it, had brought a large part of that around. The american ministry had been lax, true, by comparison to the nearly remodelled Ministry under Kingsley. The population of the Biritish Wizarding World had been fresh from blood-shed. Nobody had wanted to drop their guard too much after the Blood Wars, and he wouldn't have been surprised if there were Wizarding communities still going strong outside of the Order's influence. Everyone had dealt with enough inferi, as a whole, to at least be able to deal with a small number even before they realised that the muggle strain was different. The Americans, for all that they'd been having a difficult time of it because of their own problems – creature civil wars, apparently – hadn't been on a state of high alert. The last communication had been a grim one, where Auror's were being refreshed on how to fight inferi and were starting to beat them back. Since then, the floo connections had been dead and there'd been no contact.

Not even on the new-fangled magical telephones that Hermione had been handing out like sweets once she and George had finished tinkering with them.

That the remains of Al were wandering around up here was frankly terrifying for what it said about the state of MACUSA. The man had been one of the senior Aurors, and though he did his fair share of scrapping tended more to the planning than front line fighting.

It meant the command structure was broken. It meant that the enforcers of the statute were gone. And it meant, potentially, the exposure of the Wizarding World to a bunch of Muggles who were fresh from having to kill to survive, and suspicious – potentially homicidally so - of anything remotely _unknown_.

The best case was acceptance of useful skills, ones that could decimate an attacker and save a friendly. The worst was being blamed for this muggle-made blight, experimented on, or being potentially used as a weapon against other groups of survivors. A witch or wizard, if properly motivated and powerful enough, could reduce a city block to dust.

Any military minded survivor with the leverage would have to be blind or a saint not to use that.

It was that thought that had his jaw knotting though, burying his knife in the ground up to the hilt for lack of a better target.

He needed to contact Mione. If nothing else, she would have the contacts to try and build a complete picture.

Because he could see the gulf between Magical and Muggle getting larger from this, and if found out, the secret of a whole population of people the Muggles couldn't match or control could be one hell of an explosion. One that had always had the potential to cost lives, but now could be so much worse.

Because, came the dark thought, in this harsh new world, death came easy and life was cheap. And desperation could lead people to strange, unimaginable depths.

He left the jerky to cook by the group's fire without a word, and ignored the feeling of eyes on his back as he disappeared back into the woodland.

There would be no rest tonight.

\- line break -

"The mean people are coming."

It was a soft voice, young and innocent in a way that was rare to find even in children these days.

He tensed immediately at hearing it, shoulder's knotting in a painful mix of guilt and honest-to-gods fear. Fear of what he'd see when he turned around.

Because he knew that voice, he knew that shaky need that spoke of fear and pain, of trepidation and the want of protection. And his eye's teared up slightly even if he didn't let them fall closed. Even as part of his mind catalogued the warning.

"Yeah, Theo." His voice sounded like he was gargling rocks, rough from the need to yell or sob. He didn't know which. Probably both. "There's a lot of mean people in the world today."

"Why?" Confused, so very confused. Like he didn't know why the sky was blue or the ground was made of dirt.

"Fear and hunger makes people do bad things, little cub."

"Will they do bad things to us? If they catch up?"

He swallowed thickly, pausing with his hand tight around his bow. The tears were too numerous to see through properly now, trickling unimpeded as he stared in front of him, almost unseeing into the woodland.

"I won't let them." The words of the promise echoed hollowly, taking him back _years_.

He was almost numb to the world when the shade departed. The feeling of _cold-lost-other_ faded with it, as it always had. Dammit all to hell, why now? The angry thought had him scrubbing at his eyes, the rough feeling on his callous' and sharp movements breaking some of the emotional paralysis.

Mione had tried to explain them, the _echoes_ that followed them both through the Veil. Echoes of people they'd lost, or seen fall. It didn't matter how or who, and there seemed to be no order to the occurrences. Only that some of their soul had latched onto their magic, and instead of fading as would normally happen, the Veil had _merged_ them. And sometimes, that small echo of a soul manifested. Usually as a reflection, almost a recording, of their last moments. The larger the 'shard' of soul, the more aware and reactionary it was.

He hadn't been there when Theo had been struck down by Death-Eaters. But the magical bond hadn't cared about distance, screaming from the backlash of breaking. He'd been in his God-son's mind even as he'd battled like an enraged hippogriff to get to his cub in time.

He'd failed. And through the bond, he'd been left a constant reminder of that, one that was just barely conscious enough of it's surroundings to trick him into thinking Theo had been a true ghost the first couple of times. The four year old had died believing those words – _I won't let them._

It never failed to break his heart when he had to repeat them.

\- line break -

The group couldn't leave well enough alone. Nosy to the extreme, but then, he already knew that one.

He hadn't expected them to find him in the woods, however.

He'd hunted deeper than either he or Daryl had gone before, several miles out, taking out Shamblers as and when the opportunity arose. Better to delay a second than leave the way open for one to follow him. It also made for a vicious and well-justified venting of misplaced anger. Along the way he'd stumbled across a small smattering of animals, but had hit the jackpot with a small herd of deer.

Thin, scared. The Shamblers had obviously been hunting them as well, because one old doe had a bite mark all too recognisable even from a distance and under scant lighting. He'd taken two from them, the old doe an extra mercy killing: though animals didn't turn, the muggle strain seemed to weaken them and kill them all the same, even if it did skip the re-animation stage.

And any animal that hunted and ate the creature would meet a similar fate. He'd left the corpse buried in the vain hope it would prevent that.

He'd settled by a stream to skin, clean and package the meat to be cut into strips. The skins were near perfect, and once tanned would make good, strong leather. If they ever managed to be tanned, and the group could stomach the thought. He was halfway through the second buck – and incidentally at his tenth Shambler kill that night alone – when he' picked up foot-steps.

Incredibly faint, nothing hesitant about them at all. It was a step pattern that he recognised.

For a long moment, the hunter merely looked and said nothing. It was an easy silence, only broken when the man started moving down the bank and shouldered his crossbow. Even then, no words passed between them, Daryl merely taking and wrapping the parcels of meat with a deft hand. With two bucks worth, it was easier to carry only what was necessary; nature would see to it that the rest wasn't wasted.

He was careful to wipe his knives down before picking up his own up; they would get a full clean back at camp, but for now it was smarter to move on. Blood would attract Shamblers like nobody's business.

"Half for Jerky, half for now." He told the silent man, knowing he'd understand the subtext. _Hide half from the greedy idiots._

"Stockin' up?"

"After the pack yesterday? Hell yes."

Daryl sent him a measuring glance.

"Eastwood aint gonna like that."

"Shane can go swivel." He bit back with a tone of finality. "If the group isn't going to move soon, I will. I've got a family to protect and far too much shit to do to play Keep up with the Jones', apocalypse edition."

Or Eastenders, perhaps. Christ there was enough melodrama in the camp to make a Soap Opera look boring. Mildly unstable Shane was having fun with Lori, Lori seemed to both love and hate the fact, Carl didn't approve in the least in a childish way: Andrea and Amy had sibling spats that made the Weasley's prank wars look tame. The women were up in arms about Ed, Ed was being the asshole of assholes. Everyone treated the Dixon's like rabid rabble-rousers, between fear and disgust, and when the two hunter's didn't take it lying down, he'd lost count how many times it had almost come to blows. It was like the plot of a TV show in of itself.

Maybe they could start a chat show: _Talking Dead: Issues with the Afterlife._

The thought was ridiculous enough that a smile quirked up of it's own volition.

He was still vaguely amused when he dumped his load of meat in Andrea's arms, ignoring the wrinkling of her noise at the sight of the bloody cloth packages. Daryl had scooted round the camp to emerge directly behind his tent, seemingly to stash his half as requested.

But little in the group could pass without some form of drama, and it seemed one of the likely sources had decided that he needed to be the victim.

He made it as far as his tent, and taking out an oil rag when the figure of Shane moved to loom over him.

"Where the heck were you?" The man's voice was a cold, no nonsense demand. Had the tone come from someone he respected, or actually liked, it would have garnered confusion.

Instead, Shane got a look of derision.

"Where'd you think?" Because really, it should have been obvious.

"Didn't think to let someone know?" And therein lay the rub: someone acting without orders, taking the initiative and doing as they pleased without the man's permission. Shane was almost as much of a control freak as Lori.

"Didn't need to." He shrugged in reply

"Look, I've been pretty lax with you til now. But you need to start listening, lettin' people know where you're going and why. It aint just your safety I'm worried about here."

All fair points, but the look in his eye, and the angry tone – the one that screamed _listen or else_ – did little to back them up. Rather, it pointed to other reasons that Shane didn't want to voice.

"Fair." He allowed. "But I'm no hound to bring to heel at a whistle. And I know better than to bring any Shambler's back here. On the subject, came across a pack the other day. Eighteen strong. Moving in this direction."

Shane's eyes widened, but shock quickly fell to resigned anger. And Harry felt for him, he really did. The burden of lives on the man wasn't huge – nothing like it had been in the Blood Wars – but responsibility for other people's lives was often a large on in of itself.

"They taken care of?"

"Between me and the Dixon's, they're not going anywhere." He affirmed. "But the packs are getting bigger and more frequent. Citie's are running out of food I'd wager."

"God damn." Shane looked one second away from tearing his hair out in frustration, or hitting something. "Keep this t'yourself for now. Don't wanna panic anyone."

"I see no reason to say anything unless asked, for now." He shrugged. And it was true: between he and the Dixon's, there wasn't really a threat to Camp Caper yet. But there would be eventually. "But I'm moving sooner rather than later if they keep migrating like this."

Shane's eyes were dark, hard and measuring.

"What 'bout Atlanta?"

"They're moving away from the city. Somehow I don't think that'd be the case if it was still a safe zone."

And even as Shane gave a grim nod to that, he knew there was little the man could say in reply. Not without crushing what little hope Shane had been nursing of finding safety. It was probably half the reason the man had hesitated in getting the people to the city that was supposedly 'safe'.

"You don't sugar-coat shit, do you?" The comment was made in a dark kind of humour.

"Arsenic tastes like almonds, makes no difference. Still kills you dead." He stopped to think, head tilting to the side. "Well, maybe not quite as dead as it used to."

Shane laughed. It wasn't a happy laugh, it was bitter and hollow and disbelieving, but Harry couldn't fault him for it. Because it was maybe the most honest sound Shane had come out with since he'd been there.


	6. Reunion

Reunion

(Review replies at bottom)

"We need to scout out Atlanta." The announcement cut across the camp, silencing conversations and turning eyes.

Shane's jaw knotted under the sudden attention, but the man pushed through. From the defensiveness of his stance he clearly expected a fight on it, but wasn't going to back down no matter what was said. The residents of Camp Caper held a frozen breath, apparently waiting for someone to break the silence. The Dixon's were in the their own space, close enough to hear and listening just as avidly as the rest of the camp. If probably for different reasons.

"Make sure it's good as they said."

"Scout out?" Ed's snort left barely a pause, apparently irritated. Carol seemed to still at the tone. "It's a safe zone. We shoulda moved into it ages ago, I told ya! We don't need to pussy-foot around."

"We don't know that, not now." Dale, ever the peace-maker. His interjection merely made Ed's face flush, in the same way that Vernon's used to. "Better to be safe than sorry."

"Sorry? We'll be sorry if we stay in this fucking hole another damn day. You heard the TV!" The man was nearly shouting now. "Atlanta's a safe zone. Got military an' everything, and we're here with our dicks hangin' out, like a bunch of bums when we could be behind walls, with hot water and food that ain't fuckin' road kill!"

"Watch your language!" Came Lori's furious hiss, hands shielding Carl's ears. Carol seemed like she dearly wished she could do the same for Sophia, who looked like she was trying to melt into the ground in an effort to go unnoticed. No, he didn't need legimency to see what was going on between them, and for a brief moment he seriously considered ending Ed's life then and there.

There was very little from what Muggles saw as 'ordinary life' that Harry found reprehensible to the point of being willing to take a life. Child abuse was one of them.

The clatter of the plate hitting the ground, discarded coffee mug and all, was like a gun-shot in the silence. From his position by the camper, he watched the groups reactions to Ed's little tantrum. It ranged from longing, sadness, anger – and in Shane's case, closed off. Still. The kind of stillness that heralded an explosion.

Ed was on thin ground, it seemed.

"You watch your mouth, bitch. Ain't nothin' you should be getting' your nose in." This time, it was snarled, both of the Peletier women shrinking.

"Watch what you're saying , Peletier. Ain't no call to beat on other people, no matter how fuckin' scared you are." Shane near growled, Ed staring back stubbornly but taking a sharp step back when Shane shifted towards him . Lori opened her mouth, possibly to retort, when Harry's patience reached breaking point.

"Shambler's are moving out from the city." It was almost funny how it made the group jolt, like they'd almost forgotten he was there.

"Maybe they've finally realised the military ain't gonna let them in." Morales interjected, just as quiet. Hopeful, and he could see the words literally raising spirits around the fire. It was a shame to crush it.

"More likely they've run out of food." He replied, carefully meeting Shane's gaze. "Tell me, in all the time you've been here, have you heard anything like a gun battle? Any sign of protracted gun fire or an active military presence? Should be crawling with supply wagons by now, Copters, if they have been holed up in there."

Shadows seemed to follow on the heels of the explanation, and he was almost sad to see the partially defeated look on some of the faces.

"Maybe they've managed to kill them all off." Andrea's voice was hard, this time. Gone was the softly spoken girl that agreed with Dale and shrank in the back-ground, going fishing with her sister and smiling at the thanks she received. Here, instead, was a woman desperately holding on to hope and defending it viciously. " Maybe that's why it's silent. It's possible, right?" She was nearly glaring at him, daring him to challenge it.

He had half a mind to do it just to spite her.

"That's why we need to take a look." Shane seemed calmer than just moments before, even managing to ignore Ed's sneer to face the majority of the group. "If we don't, we'll be walking in blind."

Ed spat on the ground, spinning towards his tent. Though the vicious words were muttered, it was not too low for his hearing.

"Stupid fucks. Gettin' us all killed-"

From the look on Shane's face as Carol and Sophia seemed to shrink into his shadow, following the rough jerk of hands far too quietly and obediently to be natural, Ed would have been better served worrying about more immediate threats.

Because if Harry was tempted to make the man a memory, the group's leader looked one step away from burying the body.

\- Line Break -

It seemed he would never get an evening to himself in this place, even when he set up his own fire. Though that wasn't what currently had him pre-occupied.

Harry never really found himself around children all that much, at least, not since the Veil. That wasn't to say he didn't know how to take care of them. Because if nothing else, given his one-man-godparenthood with Theo, and the Weasley's predilection for a large litter combined with Mione's love interest in Ron...

Well, let's just say he'd taken care of kids at a variety of ages and stages, magical accidents and all.

He'd been kind of avoiding them since the unplanned trip to this reality though: Mione had been too, missing her little ones. Girls weren't so bad; Theo, for all the joy he had taken in changing his hair, couldn't really have changed his gender.

But when it came to boys, some part of him trembled and numbed, and that aching hole in his chest seemed to throb.

So, though he knew the rational reason for freezing like a startled deer or niffler caught in the act, it didn't stop his hand's stopping of their own volition and his brain blanking when Carl Grimes plopped himself down right next to his tent.

Bless his heart, the kid didn't seem to realise. But from the sharp attention he felt on his back, someone _had._

"What are you doing?" Young, curious, eye's bright as he studied the pieces of wood he'd been whittling. It took a moment for him to look away from that vision, from some part of him trying to impose Theo's features and signature blue hair on the boy, before he could focus properly on what he was doing again. He coughed roughly, trying to clear the sudden clog in his throat.

"Fletching." And he still sounded like he had the worst cold in history, but at least the words came out even and vaguely steady.

The boy looked up with a scrunched up face that had him smiling even before he'd registered the act.

"Making arrows." He expanded, answering the silent confusion.

"Oh." The boy reached towards the pile that had already been bound, fletched, glued and was drying, eye's darting for permission before picking one up by the shaft. "It's really smooth."

"Smoother and straighter the better. They fly further and hit things better like that."

Carl carefully placed it back where he found it, moving instead to the pile of feathers.

"Why'd you put feather's on them?"

Instead of answering, he raised one of the completed arrows, and took a deep breath keeping the arrow horizontal between them so the boy could see as he blew the smoke from the fire down the shaft.

It was no wind tunnel, but it demonstrated _why_ there were flight feathers more capably than he would have been able to explain it.

"Look, see how the smoke flows and twists over them? They direct the air around the back of the arrow, keep in flying straight." He couldn't help grinning at the wonder on the boy's face, as the smoke curled away. "They don't need it to fly – in a pinch, a stick'll do as an arrow, but this helps it go further and be more accurate."

"That's so cool! Like when you've got lines on the inside of a gun?" He blinked, a little dumbstruck. What was it with most muggle-raised boys and guns? It was all Dean Thomas would talk about for the first few hours they'd been stuck in a detention cell.

"Kinda like that, I 'spose. That's called 'Rifling'.' Makes the bullet twist, so it keeps straight."

"Riy-ful-ing" The boy tested the word out, as though unsure of what to make of it.

For a moment, they both fiddled with their respective parts, him stripping the wood to make the arrows, Carl binding the already split feathers with raw-hide as directed. Something was eating at the boy, but Harry knew better than to break the silence.

He got the feeling the kid was building up courage.

"Mr James, can I ask a question?"

"Already did, kid." He couldn't teasing with a ghost of smile, ignoring the disgruntled look it earned him.

"Not a kid." Was the mumbled reply, Carl blushing slightly in embarrassment. "Why do you avoid me?"

And damn it if the kid hadn't managed to freeze him again, that innocent bluntness that only kid's could possess hitting right to the core. He put the knife down with trembling hands, twisting the half completed shaft restlessly. It took him a moment to pull himself back together, and it was almost double vision when he looked at Carl. Because there was so much of Theo's bone structure in there, just ready to mature.

He smiled, gently despite the renewed, breathless ache in his chest.

"You remind me very much of my son." The sentence hit the air, soft but oh so hollow to his ears. Carl must have picked up on it, for all that he had been careful not to bleed too much emotion. He was reaching a hand almost automatically, turning it into a indicative gesture, dropping it as the boy looked at him with conflicted eyes. "He would have been about your age now, I think. Lively boy, stubborn little bugger when he wanted to be."

Carl looked down even as his hand dropped completely.

"I'm sorry."

"Not your fault." He reassured as cheerfully as he could. "It just... hurts sometimes, that he's gone."

How to explain the loss of the centre of your world to a child? What kind of world was it that the kid knew what it looked like to ask about it?

"Like how Daddy's gone?" The small question took him completely off guard.

"Yeah." And even against the backdrop of the fire, the boy looked pale and fragile.

"They're in a better place." The boy's voice was strong, despite how much strain the sentence carried. Carl wanted to believe it desperately, was determined to see it that way. "That's what mommy says."

"I'm sure your Mum's right, Little One." It was as bad at that promise to Theo, the way it rang empty.

A fierce grip on his wrist startled him into dropping the half completed shaft, and Carl eye's seemed to glow with the fire.

"She is, Mr James. And I'll tell Dad to look after him for you. Daddy'll help, he doesn't like to see people hurting."

And despite himself, for the first time in weeks, he felt himself smiling genuinely at that fierce, protective firebrand of a boy that stood tall when all the kid wanted to do was fall apart.

"Thanks, Carl." He stopped, but then decided that, if nothing else, the next part needed to be said if only in fair payment. The kid may have been strong, but sometimes hope needed a push. "But if he's anything like me, your Dad'll probably be with you most of the time."

It was almost heart-breaking to see that small smile. But even then, the shared camaraderie and hope seemed to lighten the kids heart a little.

He went into the woods to sleep with a heavy mind that night, but maybe, just maybe, a lighter heart himself.

-Line Break -

The next morning saw several targets getting shredded by arrows.

He'd been at it since dawn, first hunting (though interrupted) then moving onto rough targets, restless and in need of an outlet. The original intention had been to test the new arrows, but it had quickly turned into acting out a personal grudge. Laughably, against himself.

 _Nock, draw, loose_.

Naive _-Loose -_ defenceless – _Loose –_ perceptive -

Nock. Full draw with his muscles thrumming with tension.

Release was instinctive. The arrow thudded into the nest of it's brethren, the previous mottled green of the target now resembling a pin-cushion.

-Kids.

He released a hissing breath, somewhere between a snarl and sigh, settling the bow by his side with another nocked automatically. Harry was not in the best of moods.

He avoided kids. He avoided them for a reason, because it hurt. And because he had a soft spot a mile wide . He knew what it was like to be a child and faced with adult problems, to have that innocence ripped away. To be forced to grow up too fast, be abused and used. A part of him would protect a child with his life, and with other's death if it came to that with very few qualms.

The group had kids. The group were idiots. Kept on going the way it was, the little ones were going to die either through their care-givers stupidity or lack of preparation for the inevitable.

He was more careful removing the arrows than when he was shooting, mindful of breaking them, before stomping back a few more feet from his previous firing position.

 _Not his group, not his responsibility._

Except that wasn't entirely true, now was it?

He could have left days ago, made his way to Atlanta on his own, and from there either gone to New York and MACUSA headquarters or the coast. He wouldn't have had to worry about drawing more Shamblers by using magic, because he knew he could out-run most any Pack that came after him, if not decimate them using it. Could have left, but didn't.

Instead he'd limited his magic use as much as possible for fear of being discovered and drawing in Magical Zombies and their cohorts - more than he could handle without tipping his hand. Put food in their belly and cleaned the clothes on their back. Done what needed doing to try and stock up the groups supplies and keep them from danger, at risk to himself.

He'd integrated. At first he'd justified it as a way of looking for directions. Then it was for the kids. But it was the stone cold realisation that he _didn't want to leave any of them in danger_ that was currently screwing with his head.

Saving people thing. God's damn his upbringing.

An arrow accompanied the realisation, smacking into the target with enough force to bury it past the head.

The reason he wasn't entirely pissed off, though probably irate, was an equal mix of self-recrimination and relief. Hermione had drilled it into him to take his 'Phone' with him, citing the need to be in contact without a bright white Patronus or owl drawing in unwanted attention. Drilled it into him so much he'd added a special little compartment to his dragon-hide pouch and kept it there, rather than take the thing out and risk leaving it.

Honestly, he hadn't really thought much about it since she'd given the instructions on how it worked and why, months before the dead started to crawl, and he'd discovered the limitations. Really, an owl or Muggle phone had seemed much more reliable at the time. It was a phone, in the sense that it accomplished the same things, but only in the same way the Wizarding Wireless was a radio. Which was to say, not at all, working on a completely different kind of energy and ley-lines as opposed to satellites.

The Muggles thought they got bad reception sometimes? Try making a call on a magical phone when a particularly large moon was making the ley-lines flow backwards. Bloody impossible.

At any rate, he'd woken early and just started hunting when an impossibly familiar melody by the Wyrd Sisters had erupted from his satchel, scared off breakfast, and promptly alerted every Shambler for miles. He was only thankful it wasn't in camp.

Though he suspected that Merle would have gotten a kick out of Mione chewing his ear off.

Her first sentence had been calm, the kind of calm that Shane had displayed the evening before.

"Harry, why are you in America?"

He supposed that he should have shown better sense, but between him and Mione they'd gotten into the habit of banter. He should have expected the reaction to what he said next though:

"Felt like a holiday. Wonderful weather they're having, don't you know?"

She'd exploded.

After the five minute rant, during which he'd killed three Shamblers drawn to the sound of enraged shouting audible even through the crappy connection, she'd calmed down enough to downgrade from 'merlin-damned pile of hippogriff dung with a deathwish!' to actually asking what had happened.

He'd relocated to a trees branche's halfway through, if only to avoid more murderous interruptions. Magicallly wireless headsets, he loved them.

"Why is it always you?" She'd sighed after he'd explained Agerta's fascination with cats, Dolores final revenge, trying to find a way back and falling in with a group of Muggles that had less net weight in braincells combined than the average peanut.

"If I knew, I'm fairly sure my life would be a lot easier." He'd all but shrugged in reply. "It's the kids that're getting to me."

"Look, next time check your damn phone." Irritated, but no longer irate. Things were good between them. Still, he knew better than to hope there wouldn't be a next time. "I know, I know: the Muggle satellites are down, and it'll look suspicious if you answer. But at the very least you could have dropped a message through!"

He carefully didn't mention that he'd forgotten he had the damn device at all.

"Well-" There was a gusty sigh down the phone. "That explains the delay at least. I can send you some documents through this, if you want. Hedge medicines and the like, couple of maps. If you're running with muggles, you might want to brush up on the machinery that could be useful, as well and-"

And that was about the point he'd tuned out. Only he didn't have time to listen to her rant.

"Mione, I trust you to send me what I need to know." Shocked silence met the interruption, and then another huff. He quickly started before the machine-gun fast sentences re-established themselves. "But at the moment I'm more concerned with the Statute."

"...The Statute? Man eating corpses roaming around, and you're worried-?"

"I found Albert roaming up here. You know, senior Auror, doesn't really fight all that much, main co-ordinator for the Obliviation Squad?"

"...Oh, Harry." And there was the realisation. Breathless, frustrated worry. "You think MACUSA-?" She couldn't finish the sentence.

"Very probably." He quietly confirmed.

"Oh, _hell_." It was a sentiment he fully agreed with. "We can't let this lie, can we?"

His silence was answer enough it seemed, because she was quick to change the subject.

"We'll sort out MACUSA later. I'll contact people, and maybe if you can swing by the area. But Harry, I know you. You're not going to want to leave that group or those kids."

"Doesn't mean I can't check out the Magical communities along the way." He supplied, and felt more than heard the thoughtful silence.

"...Be safe, Harry."

"Always" He grinned. "You know me."

"That's what's worrying." Was her wry reply, but he could hear the smile. "Every week, you hear me."

"Yes, Ma'am."

She was laughing as he hung up. It had left him a bad taste in his mouth though, at his own stupidity and the fact she and the Order were without him.

 _Nock._ This time, a steady breath and a calm mind went behind the smooth draw.

 _Ai-_ Movement drew his eye, and he almost reflexively swivelled, draw length at full and ready to be let go.

"Whoa there, tiger!" Huh, well, it turned out even his senses could be fooled if he was deep enough in thought. Because standing maybe a hundred feet away was Shane, hand's up in an uneasy, universal gesture of peace just shy of the camp's edge. "Good reflexes you got there."

He lowered the bow but didn't put remove the arrow, adrenalin still humming.

"Feel like putting them to use in the scouting run?" He was surprised to note it was a suggestion, rather than an order, and after a moment's consideration nodded.

It looked like that Storm was coming sooner rather than later.

- **-REVIEW REPLIES-**

Hi all – firstly, many thanks to all for reviewing. It is appreciated. This is my current fictional obsession, so it will probably gain a few more chapters in short order. Though Sod's Law is currently doing it's own thing with my life (really, I sympathise with poor Harry on that part. I really do.), so I can't promise regular updates.

In answer to the question regarding Daryl. It's split between Harry's perception, and Daryl acting differently. On one hand, Harry spends as much time in camp as he feels comfortable with: he's currently going through something akin to culture shock, trying to get a feel for the group, and any landmines he should avoid stepping on. Add to that that for the last several years he's been a relative loner, and one partially worshipped and scorned by backwards Wizarding society, and he's not really around for much of the camps interactions with Daryl, or vice versa. He's running on hearsay, and what little he sees between his own need for space and restlessness. The interactions during hunting give a completely different impression than the one the camp has, so he's reserving judgement and trying not to colour the man one way or the other just yet.

From Daryl's perspective, he is a hunter, and a predator in his own right. Both Dixon's are: Harry is probably the only one in the camp at the moment besides them that is self reliant enough to not need them, armed and potentially a credible threat if they turn out to be a threat to the group or he wanted to fight them. Between Merle's experience in the army and Daryl's instincts, they have him pegged as a threat to respect and one that bears watching. Daryl is trying to figure out what makes him tick and why he's staying with the group despite the open declaration of leaving, while Merle is leaving well enough alone so they don't alienate him if they need an alliance. Also, the interactions we see Daryl have with the group are confrontational, but I reckon that's more of a 'Fuck You!' attitude directed at the group than a basic setting. Because most of the group are judgemental, dependent on the food they bring in, and basically treat them like shit until it's something the group wants or needs from them. I imagine Daryl is exactly the kind of person who would give that back in spades, albeit in not the same way as Merle. So far, Harry hasn't done anything to deserve that nor even aligned himself with the group particularly, so he's neutral in the conflict.


	7. Pot, Meet Kettle

He managed to calm down before they got to the camp border's proper. If nothing else a short temper wouldn't help anyone, and there was already enough bad feeling flying around to make the air thick enough to cut with a knife most of the time.

It was something that almost automatic to swallow down and shelve.

Most of the group were already up and moving by the time they made it. Not ones to sit on their laurels, most of the women were busy: either cooking, washing or trying to mind hyperactive children. From Carl's brown stained grin, and the older black woman's secretive smile every time she saw one of the adults have to chase the kids into submission, Jacqui had clearly stashed and shared some chocolate.

The laughter added a brightness to what would otherwise have been a sombre morning. One that had a ghost of smile twitching at the corners of his own mouth.

T-dog, though just as amused in demeanour as his companion, was hauling supplies from one end of the space to another, where it was being sorted into smaller piles: a stock count, most likely. Though a pitifully small one. As he'd privately thought for a while, they would have needed to raid Atlanta sooner rather than later, regardless of the Shambler or human population. Though he was relieved to see the dried meat still in existence, despite the group's issues with rationing.

The only real change in routine, besides the Dixon's not being gathered around their own tent but by the truck and huddle of men, was that Andrea seemed to be in a heated debate with Lori. From the pile of clothes best left un-smelt even from the edge of camp, was probably more to do with Lori's attitude towards 'Women's work' than any personal dislike.

Not that Andrea really liked Lori all that much anyway. Then again, not many seemed to gel well with the woman.

But, the daily dose of melodrama was easily ignored in favour of moving towards the hot coals, and one delicious aroma that trumped them all.

"Reckon I can nick a cup, without it being spiked by sugar?"

Jacqui turned a smile on him, halfway through putting together several of the tin mugs and topping them with water. Apparently, she was on coffee duty this morning, which wasn't a bad thing. He didn't know how Amy did it, but for all her eagerness to help she somehow managed to burn water.

"Why? It'll make the journey more interesting." And there was the mischief maker nobody else looked for in the apparently mature lady.

"For me, maybe. Think the other's might disagree." He chuckled. "Side's, I think they've got enough to deal with, with those two."

He didn't even need to gesture to the little ones, who were currently playing hide and seek with a frustrated Amy. Her grin grew, and it was nice to see. There wasn't very much to genuinely be happy about these days, and certainly her antics indirectly had even Shane smiling.

"Ah, it's good to live a little."

"That it is." He agreed, accepting a mug, before blowing on it and taking a sip that had his tongue curling. He raised the mug to her. "God's bless caffeine and it's lovely providers."

"Go on with you!" She laughed. "Out of it, brat."

He gave her a cheeky wink, and a half bow.

"As the Lady wishes."

She huffed, eyeing him, before turning serious.

"Be careful out there, James. And can… you look after T, too? He ain't cut out for bloodshed, if it comes to it." Soft, almost hesitant. "Don't know what I'm gonna to do without my squirrel or man fix."

He gave her a soft smile.

"Always."

"I gotta be worried, man?" T-Dog's comment greeted him as he moved toward the truck and the planning huddle. The man was trying to look serious, but the light in his eyes gave him away.

"Nah. Seems I'm outmatched." The deadpan reply was out before he could help it, belied by an easy smile.

"Too right, limey." The man puffed up, and he shook his head even as he continued on. It seemed the kids had improved everyone's outlook today.

"Apparently she wants you back to cuddle bad enough that I'm your baby-sitter." He teased, watching as the man grimaced out of embarrassment, reaching up to smooth non-existent hair.

"Dear Lord in heaven."

Glenn looked up briefly at the moaned comment, taking Harry's mouthed 'Women troubles' as answer enough as they joined the scouting party. Bent over a map of the area, Harry almost sighed at seeing the pencil lines. Apparently they were doing a dot to dot of a spaghetti knot.

Shane currently had the bull by the horns, finger tracing one of the larger roads, pencil poised in the other. There had obviously been a stormy debate going on for a while, and Ed was red faced enough to rival a beetroot.

Not for the first time, Harry wondered how they'd survived so far.

"-can take the interstate. Can't be too badly blocked on the way in, not with the amount of people around now. Everyone'll be in the city by now, I expect."

"If it's safe." Glenn noted. "I know I got out early, before the broadcasts. Wasn't the only one. More people trying to get in than out, but that coulda changed if they got over-run."

 _If people had chance to get out_ , he very nearly added, but held his tongue at the last second. He was starting to get tired of being the bearer of bad news.

"Any other ways in?" Glenn shifted as the leader's comment made everyone look at him.

"Know a few. But they might be blocked off, 'specially if the military have holed up there." He seemed to chew over a thought. "Interstates the main entrance and exit. They'll probably have people watching there."

"So we're taking the interstate anyway." Morales noted, leaning back against the car.

"It'll confirm if the army's there. Or if the 'force have managed to hold out." Shane reluctantly agreed. "Don't like how open it'll leave us though."

"Show of faith, going up to 'em hand's up." Jim interjected from his quiet corner. "Send a few but maybe not everyone, so you've got someone watching your back."

It was almost as amusing as last evening: how people seemed to forget that the man existed, surprised when he spoke up. Shane seemed caught up in the implications of the plan, though even he seemed mildly shocked that Jim had opened his mouth.

"Is it a good idea to split up?" The latino man spoke, softly, not flinching when it drew attention. "If there's Walker's instead of people…"

Morales didn't need to stress the point. Being caught up in a pack of Walker's was bad enough with strength in numbers, and most of the group weren't active combatants in that respect. Ed didn't seem to agree though.

"There won't be Walkers. It's a Safe Zone! All of us could walk right up t' the gate an' be fuckin' laughing! We're wastin' time, planning for something that ain't true."

"If you're so fuckin' sure, why don't you come along for the ride?" A furious Ed fell silent under the weight of the men's combined stares. "Yeah." Shane snorted, as Ed growled but didn't reply. "S'what I thought, Peletier. Can the attitude. Even you ain't sold on Atlanta being all pickin' Daisy's and hot showers."

Ed departed with a hateful glance, grumbling all the way. For all that he pretended to suddenly be fascinated by the dregs of his coffee, Harry almost wanted popcorn for the next confrontation. He'd seen enough to know that the two were going to come to blows eventually, and it was going to be one hell of a show when they did.

Shane seemed relax fractionally with the volatile man gone, at least no longer primed for a fight, running a finger over the map again.

"We'll go through the interstate then. Two groups, one to a car, one to Daryl's truck: Me an' a couple of others. Harry. Glenn. Daryl." The man barely waited for a nod before continuing, ignoring how the younger Dixon's face closed off. "We'll go first. Second group on our tail, anyone else who feels comfortable enough with a weapon without leavin' the camp too open. Hang back when we start getting' t'the city limits, lay low." Decided, the leader's voice got stronger as he talked. "You'll be backup just in-case."

And with that, the group broke to get ready.

-Line break -

The ride to Atlanta was… tense.

Daryl was spitting almost hateful looks at Shane, having snarled that he wasn't ' _A damn dog!'_ when told to fetch his truck. Shane didn't help his case by ordering him like one, spitting back about how ' _redneck trailer trash'_ should know his place. The man was walking a fine line with the hunter.

Glenn was clearly uncomfortable with the atmosphere, trying to make jokes to break the tension at first and failing miserably, falling silent in short order. When they got moving, Shane took the wheel and the other's went into the truck bed, windows wide open.

And him?

Well, Harry was ignoring it as only a survivor of a Weasley family-wide stand-off could. And taking almost unholy enjoyment from watching Glenn jump in the mirror every time he made a pass over his knife with a wet stone. It was goblin-made, and thus didn't need it, but he'd never done well with idle hands.

At the very least, the jumpiness displayed in the other occupants of the car seemed to distract Daryl a little from his vendetta. Especially when Shane visibly jumped when he tapped the stone, half-way through the journey.

"D'you gotta do that?" The Leader eventually muttered, after clearing his throat.

He smiled at the man, blithely.

"Do you have to insult one of the only people feeding you?" He replied, and could nearly feel the temperature rising in the car.

Shane's hand tightened on the wheel. In the mirror, poor Glenn looked one second from jumping the tailgate and taking his chances with the road. Yeah, they could hear them just fine from the back.

Good.

"Aint nothin' you should be buttin' in to." The man's voice was gruff and surprisingly even. "You aint from here, don't understand why we say what we say."

"Don't have to be American to understand bigotry." He shrugged in reply, sheathing the dagger fluidly. "Except it's got no place now. All it's going to do is make enemies, and lose you allies."

Case in point: the average Wizard would have definitely Obliviated the lot of them, stolen their food, and the Darker Wizards may have even Imperiused them into slaves by now. Especially the Dixon's. It wasn't a good long term plan though.

Shane gave him a narrow look in the corner of his eyes, jaw knotting.

"You're gonna have to learn a filter there, James. Shouldn't go pickin' fights."

He nearly smiled at the irony, before catching himself.

"Pot, meet kettle."

If it wasn't for the seriousness of the warning, his might have laughed at the half offended look that earned him, but at least the man seemed to be thinking about it rather than raging.

Though how long the calm would last was anyone's guess.

-Line break -

Aftermath.

That's what Atlanta reminded him of. The aftermath of battle.

Tower blocks stood like monoliths, eerily silent and some missing chunks or bearing scorch marks that could be seen miles away. Abandoned cars littered the road out of the place, still packed to the gills and roof-racks bulging, still forms strewn in and around some of them. The very air tasted heavy, ripe with rot, and his magic could pick up the after-echoes of panic and pain almost as clearly as his nose could pick up the pheromone signatures. People had fought, died and tried to outrun death here.

It was a battleground, cemetery and place of mourning all in one.

Worse, it felt like London. Not in the oppressive, too tall way that made you feel small and insignificant, but in the way that all cities probably felt now. Like it was a death-trap, _death undeath_ clinging like a second skin, a smog that polluted the lungs. There were Shamblers here, far too many Shamblers. Unlike London, there was no breeze of _Life-power_ , nothing that indicated a magical alley or residential sector.

Or if there was, it had already fallen.

"I think the only welcoming arm's we're going to meet here are the Shamblers." He couldn't help stating as he watched Daryl and Glenn jump from the back, Glenn clutching a cricket bat and gun like a life-line and the Hunter all rigid lines from tension. Clearly, for all that they couldn't feel it, they at least saw it. Shane threw him a warning look, but it was subdued even for him.

"We can risk going a little further in. It's quiet."

"Just to make sure, huh?" Surprisingly, the sarcasm came from the Korean man, for all that his hand shook around the bat. Shane ignored the comment, though whether that came from not hearing it through shock or trying to hold on to hope was anyone's guess.

He and the others fell into step with the man almost automatically, eyes darting to every shadow and trying to find the source of every creak. He had to watch himself particularly: the problem with sharp senses was that it was easy to get over-whelmed through them, to get too much information at once and not be able to make head or tail of it.

As it was, his Magical ones were skewed, as they always were around too many of the undead. His sense of taste and smell was picking up on too much death to be useful in that arena either, both old and relatively fresh. All he had to rely on now was hearing, and sight. And in a tense situation, it was easy for an over-active imagination to run riot.

He dearly wished he wasn't with Muggles right now, the temptation to have his wand ready very, very real.

They inched deeper down the pavement, keeping to shadows and constantly scanning for threats. Soon they'd made it far enough that the truck was a couple of street's away, and he could see Shane's hope wilting the more his shoulder's tensed. The more his hands played with his gun. The more time passed without sight of a manned barricade or living soldier.

There were plenty of Shambler ones though, wandering the streets they avoided on principle.

Eventually, the man just stopped, ducking into a store and behind a wall. He exchanged looks with Daryl – both of them seemingly agreeing to stand guard while Glenn trailed Shane like a lost puppy. Daryl covered the front while Harry headed past the leader's crouched position and Glenn's unsure hovering. In here, at least, the pervasive scent of age old meat was lesser. More worryingly, the scent of blood – and relatively fresh – was stronger.

He followed his nose to the back of the store, dagger up and ready. Because Shamblers had a curious smell: it was at once _rot_ and _life_ , surprisingly pleasant to a desensitised mind. In small doses. In larger amounts, and older Shamblers, the rot became more pervasive. Tickled the back of the throat like smelling salts and made him want to sneeze.

And this scent? This was a mix between the two. Which could mean one Shambler in the store, or more.

There was no movement besides the others in the front, so most likely…

Ah, jackpot.

The sound of shuffling caught his attention, and he circled round the shelves carefully. No telling whether or not it was a Magical Zombie, or if it had friends to play Feeding Frenzy with.

The prone body he saw on the floor, clearly very much dead from the missing head, had him stilling though.

Well, that was unexpected.

- **REVIEW REPLIES -**

Again, thanks for the reviews!

Statute: it's there for muggle protection as much as for Magical protection. Magical's can easily abuse the Muggle's lack of resistance to Magic, just as easily as Muggles can abuse an opening to make a magic-user their weapon or want to kill them as something they cannot control or match. The statute - to an extent - made this difficult to achieve on either side. Not all popularity is good popularity, as Harry well knows.


	8. Down the Rabbit Hole

Rabbit Holes

Head cocked, he studied the scene with a detached fascination.

Scrapes on the wall. Closed door complete with key. Long slashes in the corpse's back and a black, jagged tear where a fair portion of the neck used to be. No clean cut, no knife work.

It'd literally been _torn off._

The legless body was facing away from him, had clearly been dragging itself to the door if the disgustingly blackened blood trail was any indication. Clawing at the wall for leverage. Even from this distance, it's scent held the wrongness of a Shambler – had probably been one before it was decapitated. The freshness of the trail was at odds with the rot in the corpse, a good indicator of that.

More interesting was the prints that followed it, stark in the mottled smear, converging and then carrying on past it.

Too well spaced to be Shambler. Humanoid.

The corpse hadn't been dragging itself at something. It'd been desperately trying to get away, a muted version of blind terror still permeating the air from sallow skin.

 _Something had scared a corpse enough that it ran_.

The thought didn't make it seem any more real or possible. It went against everything they'd been able to figure out about the Shamblers – usually, reasoning and flight or fight instincts went completely out of the window. Their primary drive was for nourishment, and nourishment only. Magical Zombies were an exception to some of that, and maybe he would have found it less incredulous if he hadn't been dealing with them for months before he'd even found out the Muggle ones were different.

Even the Magical equivalent's lost focus and intelligence when faced with food, the majority willing to rush Fiendfyre despite their comrade's immolation seconds before, rather than find another way around. The presence of fresh meat made them tunnel-visioned, predictable.

They never even seemed to stop to consider there was danger. It's what made them so damn hard to fight, because they bundled any defences until they fell. Overwhelmed by tenacious, kamikaze numbers, most anything fell in the face of a horde.

"What the _fuck_." He couldn't help breathing mutely, crouching to get automatically closer out of astonishment. A cave opened in the pit of his stomach and his heart seemed to fall into it.

Oh, this was _bad._ Either Zombies were getting more intelligent, more attuned to animalistic instincts and thus harder to kill and predict, or-

"You gonna keep standing there, or come in?" A deep voice had him jolting up, facing the door with the knife held defensively.

- _there was something around even Shamblers knew better than to tangle with._

He knew better than to curse his luck. It would take it simply as a dare to do worse. Because he knew, without a doubt, which was the most likely option of the two.

The intelligent thing would be to get the hell out of dodge. Shake Shane from his catatonia, grab Glenn by the ear, and just _go_ as far and as fast as their little feet could take them. The tactically sound thing to do would be to evaluate the threat, and probably – knowing his luck – end up fighting it to the bitter end to avoid it stalking the group or causing a ruckus. The idiotic choice would be accepting the invitation into a gloomy back-room, and with the intention to talk to an unknown creature – magical, though not a kind he had encountered before - that managed to scare emotionally-incapable corpses.

Except, his Magic had never been one to give false impressions, once he'd learned to listen to it. And right now, it wasn't giving the sense of _threat_. There was a cold edge to whatever currently called the room home, but not one that intended direct harm.

Indeed, deep in his core where the edges blackened, it almost seemed to _hum_ acceptance.

Which, really, only made him more suspicious. Paranoia at it's finest.

Oh well, he'd never been accused of being intelligent. No point in starting now.

Keeping a sharp ear, and hearing and seeing nothing untoward, he pushed the handle gently and swung the door open with a nudge of his boot.

It seemed that today was out to shock him. And doing an admirable job.

He'd seen non-magical soldiers before, British and American. The uniforms were fairly standard across the three branches in each country, but he knew this one like the back of his hand. Black Ops. Maybe not English, probably not actually, but the style wasn't all that unfamiliar.

Magical soldiers didn't really have the same infrastructure or title. Some Auror's were part of the military and brought it with them, but in general the Wizarding World was too intentionally isolated for it to become mainstream.

The being wearing the uniform, leaking a dark kind of magic that tasted of _Void_ , however, could not be called Black Ops. Or human.

Practically draped across a chair, one leg thrown out over an arm, and playing idly with a knife that had once been shiny but had clearly seen more Shambler's than oil in recent times, the male was the picture of nonchalant boredom. Cropped hair, dark brown, hard, dark eyes, a fairly elfin face. Obviously no slouch when it came to fitness, pale against the dark combat uniform and gun slung casually over a chair.

The man stared at him, something lighting in those eyes like he'd seen the largest collection of sweets known to man.

The creature was up and in his face faster than most would be able to track, fast enough that he barely had time to curb a defensive stab. A leonine motion, graceful and far beyond normal, human speed.

"Hello, brother."

Well, his day just couldn't get weirder.

-Line break -

 _They can call me John_.

An important distinction. _They_. The male creature, who had yet to confirm what he actually was, had been firm in that. The unsaid expectation for his ' _brother_ ' to reciprocate the title had been broadcasted clearly. For all that the being unsettled Harry intellectually, something chronic for various reasons, for some reason the claim of siblinghood didn't feel particularly wrong. In either his Core, or his instincts.

Which was, true to form, screwing with his head royally and worse than Voldemort's followers had ever managed.

 _Your worst enemy is yourself_.

Apparently, it was true. Bewildered didn't come close to the conflicting reactions, and he didn't know which to trust.

John himself didn't help this one bit.

First, his general attitude. The bloodthirsty smile was an apparently permanent fixture. Though not directed at him, from the feel of the male's aura – oddly _welcoming_ , a sentiment his own magic seemingly reciprocated, trying to reach out past his control and _tangle threads_ in a way that had Harry more confused than anything. Still, whatever the creature was, he clearly wasn't the human definition of _sane_. Though Harry had the reassurance that John wouldn't consider the human population as a food source, which was unexpectedly decent of him.

Especially with the bloodlust rolling off him in waves.

The others in the truck could feel it too, and understandably seemed to have some qualms about keeping the male with them. Daryl had yet to remove the bolt from his 'bow, and the knife at his belt seemed to be in closer reach. Shane was tense as a board, eye's constantly flicking up in the mirror to observe the stranger and white-knuckled on the wheel. Glenn just seemed very, very still – the kind of wary, frozen stillness a deer or a rabbit displayed before bolting, ready to move at the first sign of trouble.

Second, the male had already called him by his new epithet a couple of times in their hearing distance. The jarring sense of the indignant, logical reaction of _not his brother merlin-damn-it_ , and magically induced sense of familial – possibly a magical - bond (now he thought about it), was incredibly discomforting. On top of that, the other's seemed to believe the man.

Him not saying ' _Hell no!'_ apparently signalled his agreement in the matter.

Hence why the newcomer had been accepted into the trip back at all.

Seriously, where was the resemblance? The male was taller, dark haired, dark eyed, had a sturdier build. Whereas Harry was short (childhood malnutrition was annoying), and though not skinny, had a more compact, lithe build. Green eyes. The only thing they shared was black hair!

Was he frustrated and annoyed?

Maybe a little.

Shane himself hadn't helped that. The man had taken far too long to come out of his shock, long enough that Shambler's were getting curious – though oddly, not getting _close._ The first five minutes of John's introduction to the group had been spent trying to get unseeing eyes to register reality, ignoring mumbles of ' _Not possible'_ and _'Why? Why?'_. While he could sympathise with the sentiments, certainly the unspoken ' _Why me?_ ', it had really not been the time and place to deal with the life-changing revelation and apparently devastating loss of hope.

Surprisingly, it was Glenn that had gotten him back from his head-space, citing Lori and Carl needed him and he wasn't going to

"- _do them any good being Walker-Chow!"_.

Blunt, subtle as a brick, overly loud (the man needed to learn how to whisper-shout), but it worked. Awareness returned to his eyes in subtle degrees.

Then came the new drama. Shane had agreed –

"Yeah. Yeah. Sorry." An apology, he'd been mildly astonished even through his own headache.

\- and then seen the new face and tried to greet John. Unfortunately, this followed the same pattern as Harry's initial greeting, though it had been a gun swinging up and pointing at John's face.

With the exception of the male not just settling on talking, but having his own gun out at the same moment in some demented version of a Mexican stand-off.

Daryl had been ready to shoot John, Glenn had looked idiotic with his bat half up and hesitating, and Shane. Well -

"Who the hell are you." Cold, demanding, in command and _ordering_.

The male didn't help matters by grinning like he was anticipating coming to blows.

Harry had pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed with a yearning for a cup of tea and to _not_ be surrounded by idiots, and tried to count to ten. He made it to four.

"Just put the fucking gun's down, bloody twat's. Not the time or place. If you want a pissing contest you can do it back at camp, where we haven't got corpses banging at the door." Worst salesmen in history, the lot of them. Even Dracula had been more articulate in trying to get his blood fix. "Shane, this is John, marine Extroadinaire-"

"-Flattery, brother?" John piped up, combat-ready aggression plain in his body language, and jarringly amused and open in expression. Harry's eye had definitely, reflexively twitched with the repressed desire to hex him into oblivion. Never-the-less, he'd soldiered on.

Think of it like a piece of tape, he'd chanted mentally. Quicker it was over the less painful it would be.

"-And generally very good at survival. Bit of a loner."

"Great." Glenn had gulped, sounding anything but enthused.

Shane had looked at him for confirmation, but apparently his expression of long-suffering and annoyance was enough for the man.

Daryl hadn't even shifted, eyeing them all like they were about to explode. Into what, who knew?

Confetti maybe. There would be a sight to see.

All of which had resulted in the most awkward journey in history back to camp, the second group having picked up with them once they'd made it to outskirts, studied silence and distrust making the air thick enough to cut with a butter knife.

John started cleaning his gun out.

It didn't improve.


	9. Agree to Disagree?

Their arrival at camp almost came as a relief.

He was out and dragging John from the bed of the truck almost before Shane had put the breaks on, Glenn scrambling out of the way as the male almost fell out in Harry's haste. Distantly, a part of him was almost jealous for a moment – could John move a finger without looking like grace incarnate?

The gathered camper's barely even registered as a distraction, and clearly the news about Atlanta trumped any curiosity over the newcomer. Because no-one's steps followed them. That didn't mean he couldn't feel eyes drilling holes in the back of his head, but it was easily ignored in favour of damn near stomping into the surrounding woods.

He was aware his temper was short, and high-strung emotions tended to short-circuit tactical thinking. He probably looked like someone had pissed in his personal strawberry patch, singing 'Nah-nah nah-nah-nah!' just to add insult to injury.

Actually, better not to tempt fate. Even from the short time he'd known the being, he wouldn't put it past John to do it or something equivalent. The male seemed to delight in being annoying.

As it was, the being's magic was brushing against his own in an almost teasing manner, doing the metaphysical equivalent of jabbing repeatedly. That wasn't the most annoying bit though. It was the underlying, primal _challenge_ , one his Magic understood and his instincts (Animagus and all) bristled at.

It was _definitely_ a stupid idea to drag an unknown creature into isolated woods, with no idea of his capability or boundaries.

But Merlin damn it, he wanted _answers_. And he'd had just about enough of this whole pile of hippogriff shit

Being sent to another dimension? _Heart-rending but bearable_. Trips to the past? _Fine, Ok, he could deal_. Artifact's exploding in his face with no apparent trigger? _Shit happened_. Zombie Apocalypse _? Annoying as hell, but do-able_. International Port-key and a bunch of idiot Muggles with kids? _Started to tick him off_. His patience was wearing to gossamer and it was a daily battle to not hex the idiots into oblivion sometimes.

Unidentifiable creature popping out of nowhere and forming a pseudo-familial-magical bond on the spot?

No. Just No. Even _he had limits, thank you very much-_

"Going to have your wicked way with me, brother?"

The eye twitch was back. Instinctive anger rose. It was an act of will to not be snarling by this point.

He knew the surrounding woods well enough from the Hunting trips. Now out of hearing distance of the camp, no curious eyes, he whirled and near threw John deeper into the clearing. If the creature tried to run, he would Bind and Stun the guy so fast he wouldn't have time to blink – even if it drew a Horde down on their heads.

He could do with the stress relief, actually. Statute be damned.

"Talk." Not aggressive. Almost conversational, even pleasant, but unyielding as a mountain and cold as ice. It was a tone the Death Eater's in the second War had learned to fear. His Magic was welling against his control, almost eager to be used.

The male didn't seem to react other than to _relax_ , an easy almost boyish smile taking over his face.

"Take that as a no then?" Bloody _git_. "I'm almost disappointed."

He didn't glare. He didn't reach for his Wand. His magic flared instead, and this time he let the barriers slip enough that the smell of ozone hit his nose and heat shimmers painted the air. The males own aura almost lingered, oddly drawn, his own almost _burning it_ for the trespass.

John met his eye's squarely, measuring, dark gaze swimming with something deeper than surface emotions. Whatever weird bond was between them was tickling at the back of his mind, almost flickering with the split attention of the being.

"You really don't, do you?" The sentence was almost breathed. Astonished. "So much power, brother, and you won't listen to know."

He would have liked to say that he had impeccable emotional control at this point. But while he still had a frail hold on his temper, it'd frankly been a small miracle that he hadn't blown up at John's first use of 'brother'. Cryptic comments had never helped in that department.

"Don't know what, you _bloody-minded demented flobberworm?!_ " The words were snarled, and were he any calmer, the way 'Flobberworm' echoed against the walls would have been amusing.

An enigmatic smile was his non-answer.

" _Talk. Now."_ The words were almost growled, heavy with _storm-life-windflow-dark_ , the flavour of his magic sitting heavy on his tongue like static.

The effect was instantaneous. The males eye's flickered down briefly, taking a step back sharply.

"Easy there, brother." Arm's up in a gesture of peace, and for the first time in their short acquaintance, actually serious. Low, quiet, and some part of him _hummed_ at the almost submissive display.

He didn't need to say a word, the ominous crackling growing louder in the silence.

"You and me, we're alike. " Again, that almost easy smile, coming closer but carefully not stepping into his personal space again. "Our _anima_ knows it, it's tied us together." John seemed to be picking the words carefully.

"Alike?" The word emerged with no inflection. He already knew that their Magic had tied them together – could feel the other male's caution and almost _joy_ like a tangible weight in the back of his mind. While confirmation was… Well, not nice but appreciated, that didn't explain why.

" _Gisis-hrim._ " The foreign word seemed to suck energy into it, reverberating in the space between them like the gong of a bell. One that made his entire being almost stand to _attention_ , the dark edge of his own magic almost roiling in an attempt to channel itself _._ "Void-Walkers. Shadow born. Dark Sprites. We're called many things. But we are what we are, good and bad."

"Dark?" Well, that was brilliant. Harry Potter, Dimension Traveller, Saviour – Dark Creature. His life couldn't get better! Then his brain kicked in. Hang on _– no_ – "I'm Grey."

John looked at him like he'd just said the world was flat.

"We all are." _No duh,_ the tone all but shouted. "Light, Dark: we don't pick sides by Nature."

…And there was a whole wealth of meaning behind that sentence he didn't have a point of reference for. The words had a weight to them, almost like titles, that rang of something older than any Wizarding political classification could.

"It's a part of us, as natural as breathing." John continued, looking mildly perplexed.

Clearly expected him to understand it off the bat, had no way of explaining something that was clearly common-place. And on some level, clawing at the walls of conscious realisation, something _had clicked_. It felt right, _felt true,_ the same way the Bond did.

"…I have no bloody clue what you mean." He eventually sighed, resigned and quick-fire temper dampened in the face of the realisation.

It seemed that while John knew the answers, there was no way for the being to _convey_ them.

Gods. Damn. His. Luck.

"But you do." Quietly assured, dark eyes almost black holes. Drawing in a hypnotic way that had Harry's spine stiffening, remembering Snape's lessons far too well. "You just haven't Felt it yet to name it."

Well, that wasn't ominous at all.

-Line Break -

On later reflection, Harry was almost glad he'd had his minor tantrum at John.

For one, the Dark Sprite was clearly Magical, claims of kinship aside. As a result, accidental magic (and wouldn't that be embarrassing at his age) wouldn't have been breaking the Statute of Secrecy, and clearly John could both feel and take any of the effects.

Two, it had been surprisingly cathartic to allow his Magic out even that little bit of freedom, though his Core was still unsettled for hours after. It at least stopped the feeling of being unable to stretch that metaphorical muscle, even if would be only temporary.

Which made dealing with idiots much, much easier and less risky. Were it not for the fact that he was being indirectly targeted, he would have wanted to applaud the show of teamwork from the now unified group.

Apparently, all it took was a common enemy -

"So, what've you been doing since… you know, all _this_." Falsely casual, a general gesture to the state of the world, and most of it's populace. Gathered around the fire in the evening, most of the group weren't even faking being interested in their Almost Stew.

"Killin', o'course." John grinned.

\- which John was very much setting himself up to be.

The blasé attitude he had towards people, corpses, fighting and personal space didn't help him make any friends. It scared the milder people, rang warning bells with anyone who had an 'Homicidal Maniac' radar, and made the more confrontational of the Group seem at once mild by comparison, and more determined to match the devil-may-care aura of violence the Dark Sprite seemed to ooze.

"Walkers?" Shane's continued question was pointed. Harry sipped at his tea – God's bless Jacqui, a perfect cuppa had seemed an impossibility – and studied the new dynamic that was forming.

"Yeah. And people who deserved it." John blithely continued eating whilst the residents of Camp Caper shared looks of startled horror.

"Ain't right, man." T-Dog's quiet comment split the somewhat stunned silence.

"These times? Not much is." John mopped his bowl with his tongue, a habit that Harry couldn't bring himself to be disgusted by. Nor could he condemn the killing of people, to some degree. Some people needed killing, for what they did. And what they would do. "And not many people are. In the head, I mean."

A soldier's perspective was never black and white, but it tended to be final.

From the looks, it wasn't an attitude shared by most of the group. Dale in particular looked like he'd swallowed a lemon.

"Not right in the head don't mean they don't deserve to live." The man interjected bravely.

John gave him a smile. Surprisingly gentle, for the sombre amusement in his eyes.

"I wonder if you'd say the same if your pretty fledglings were being raped, old man. Or if someone held a gun to your head and wanted to eat your heart just cause you're a source of food, or just because you're powerless and they're not."

"People wouldn't-" Amy started, voice wobbly.

"They have. They do. _Humans will._ " Final, soft, merciless words. Painted dark by the aura that flared around the man, making the shadows at the edges of Harry's vision dance and nearly made him breathe his mouthful of tea. For a moment, there was a taller, thinner silhouette superimposed on the Dark Sprite, something ferine in the white eyes and the faintest impression of _fangs_.

He wondered what the Muggles saw in that moment.

"Stop scaring 'em, man. Ain't nice." Shane's warning carried a violent edge, but not one that disagreed. Though it clearly didn't sit well with him. "Not everyone's that twisted, weren't before, won't be now."

"Scaring, _juma?_ Ain't. Just saying the truth." John stood, giving the bowl to an unnaturally silent Jacqui. "Not my fault you all don't want to hear it."

"I refuse to believe they would." Dale's voice was strong. Almost admirable, how strong that man's faith in human nature being generally good was. "We're not cavemen, we're not barbarians. This-" A hand waved. "This all doesn't change the fact we're gonna progress, that we have progressed. Things can't've sunk that low, that fast."

Admirable, but stupid. And from the nods from some of the group, not alone in it.

Johns smile wasn't as nice thing time as he went to leave, looking over his shoulder.

"Why do you think they're dead, old timer?"

Silence, utter silence. Eventually the Campers shook themselves from their stupor, long enough to start eating again and for conversations to start up. But it was a subdued affair. Even the Dixon's seemed to be talking lower than normal, weighing something in their separate little area.

Harry observed without being obvious about it, as opinion seemed to divide and change in a heartbeat. Jacqui seemed to hush T-Dog almost automatically, cutting off his protests of John's actions with an attitude that said ' _it happens'_. It seemed to break some of T-Dog's faith, harden something in him – and Harry could understand why. Something about the broken acceptance in Jacqui said ' _it had happened'_. He wouldn't ask – not his business to know – but it was a shame.

Dale and Andrea were discussing it and seemed to fall on the side of ' _it happens rarely_ ', with Andrea taking the more realistic viewpoint but not able to actually decided whether John's actions had been appropriate. Dale was unmovable. It didn't happen often, and life was sacred.

Lori was chewing Shane's ear off about John, her 'Homicidal Maniac' radar apparently ringing all kind of klaxons. _Not Safe, not right, a danger_ – seemed to be the gist of it. Shane was nodding along at the appropriate points, but seemed detached from the conversation. Lori was apparently too worked up to notice, but the man actually seemed to be thinking about John's words rather than outright vilifying them.

The rest of the Camper's were quiet, caught up in their thoughts, with Ed blessedly absent. Harry was almost finished with the dregs of his brew when the biggest surprise of the night happened.

Amy walked up to him, bold as brass and ignoring the looks of confusion and disapproval.

"What he said." Her words caught the entire camps ears despite how soft they were. "Do you think he's right?"

He considered her. Blonde, frail, clearly steeling herself against the attention she was under and any answer he might give. The imp was maybe 5'5, and doing her damnedest to stand straight backed and head held high. Points for bravery, if nothing else. And intelligence.

Well… She'd asked the question, understood it even. And he'd never been one to sugar coat things.

And if the whole Camp heard, more power to them. Hopefully they would get the meaning of it.

"Governments gone. Law's unenforceable. Prison's are out of action, and the only judge of your crimes is the people around you. This new world- " No, wrong word." This new life we've got to lead. It requires putting down husks of people every day. Won't take much for morals to slip, survival, feeling alive and control over that life to take precedence over morals."

He put his cup down, contemplating.

"Most people are starving, fearful, hurting, powerless, threatened, in a new world with no structure or rules or easy, clean ways out…" He hesitated. "Let's just say desperation drives a person to lengths and actions they'd never in a million years have considered before. And that's not even taking into account the fucker's that'll enjoy doing it, just because they can."

He withdrew from the group in the resulting silence, though headed to the woods rather than John's claimed corner of the outskirts.

And even as he stepped into the shadows he couldn't help thinking that he really, really wanted to stop being the bearer of bad news.

Because the hopeless look in Amy's eyes had been like a punch to the gut.


	10. Osmosis

Days turned into a week, and then into two. Between Mione's constant updates on Fort Grim's happenings – apparently the Shambler population had fallen dramatically between Wards and the bored Blood War Veterans – he wasn't overly worried about the situation in England. He'd spent far too long making the place impenetrable for it to fall quickly, and with his permission to amend and improve as she saw fit, Mione had taken to the task with a scholarly zeal that had sent sentient books running for the hills in the past.

Nobody seemed to quite know what to make of his sudden lack of effort in trying to get back, and he didn't see fit to explain it. Though he did say that his people were fine, and having an absolute Ball making Molotov cocktails. From their half disbelieving looks, it only seemed to make his sanity more questionable.

Not that Harry could lay claim to the title of Resident Nutter any more – John had that particular one well and truly in the bag. Between his lackadaisical attitude to killing Shamblers – " _Can I go Hunting with you brother? Pretty please? Daylight's burning and there's corpses to maim!"_ – and his seemingly constant need to make mischief, the Dark Sprite was almost as hyperactive as the kids, and given a much, much wider berth by everyone.

It reminded him oddly of Fluffy, once the Stone debacle was sorted out. _Play,_ the tail would beg going fast enough to blur, while three mouths large enough to swallow you whole, full of fangs, barked and whined themselves hoarse at you.

So things fell into a routine. Of a kind. He helped in the camp through the day, or went on supply runs to Atlanta, hunted in the morning and night, rising with the sun and shifting from feathered form to do so on the ground. The target's varied; sometimes it was Shamblers. They were moving out in larger numbers from the City - he, the Dixons, and John were quickly becoming the necessary patrol thinning the numbers every chance they got. Something the group was blissfully ignorant of, though he knew he had to tell Shane soon. Other times it was stores for the group, in preparation for the move no-one wanted to admit was necessary.

Sometimes he had company: Daryl still joined him on occasion, though by mutual agreement they split more often than not to take out more Shamblers than would otherwise be possible.

John made an impeccable Hunter… Provided you could get him to shut the hell up and stay within sight. The Dark Sprite had a tendency to bolt after prey, preferring a knife or hands over range. Not an issue, but sometimes it interfered more than it helped.

Though oddly, his magic _did_ help attune Harry's own. The bond between them had strengthened as time wore on, a constant backbeat of emotion and energy. And through it, the older being's magic seemed to almost be coaxing Harry's own to expand and explore in ways he hadn't felt since Hogwarts. Just feeling the older being use magic showed him new uses he hadn't really thought possible.

One very useful one was that though he would always be able to _taste_ the approaching magical signatures, it was possible to actually _scan_ an area. He'd never thought of it until he'd felt John doing it. Something he blamed Wizarding society for. The emphasis had always been on _focus_ over expansion, channelling the Core of energy into a tool to achieve an end. It's what made Wandless Magic so hard to learn… Unstructured nature.

But no, apparently the Core could extend tendrils just as easily as a Wand could direct it. Controlling those tendrils took patience and practice, and tired him out faster, but the _awareness-_

He could feel the area like an extension of himself. He was at once a part of the grass, the slow moving consciousness of the tree, the leaf, the wind, felt the heartbeat of the owl above his head and the rustle of pinion feathers-

He'd promptly gotten a massive headache after that first attempt, but it had been worth it. And so had the many hours of headaches that followed as he pushed himself to do it almost instinctively.

The first time he'd encountered a Shambler and tried it, he regretted it instantly. _Undeath_ had always tasted slimy, disgusting. Horrifyingly wrong to his Magical senses. _Rot-Life-movement-Hunger-vacant-gone-tortured-Undeath_ felt like viscous ooze, terrifyingly unnatural, cold, agonising to be and absolutely disgusting.

He'd killed the thing almost reflexively, before losing his breakfast to an unlucky patch of grass.

When John had come up from his most recent fight with a mammal, the Dark Sprite had given him a sympathetic look full of understanding, said

-"It doesn't get better, but you get used to it." –

and left it at that. Apparently, an aversion to shambling corpses was a species specific thing. As much as he felt sorry for the people that had been turned, if John felt that every single time… Well, Harry could understand why John made it his mission to end them whenever he could.

The shared words were unfortunately true on the subject, as well.

The Night hunts were usually different. Daryl rarely accompanied him when John was there, and vice versa. So when Daryl claimed some of the morning hunts… John claimed some of the night-time ones. And John in the day was vastly different to the Dark Sprite at night. Something about the woods, the moonlight, the shadows, brought another side out of him: a more blood-thirsty and primal one. Harry hadn't known quite what to make of it.

In his defence, as an introduction to John's Creature heritage it had been rather unusual.

They'd been stalking a doe for some time, trying to figure out if she had a herd, fawn or was just passing through. The first would be good to know, the second made her unavailable – no point taking away the fawns chance of survival. The third would have been good. The gibbeous moon had given more than enough lighting to see by, and the woods as relaxed as they could be given what else now called them home.

John had been antsy – patience wasn't his strong suit – but had heeded Harry's order to _stay back_ as patiently as he could. Which was to say, a twitching mess but thankfully not yet to the point of charging their quarry.

And then it hadn't mattered, because that patience _snapped._

Seeing a human tear out the throat of a deer with his teeth, the silhouette of an infinitely more predatory form just _edging_ out it's confines, hadn't been what he'd been expecting and certainly had taken some getting used to in the hours that followed. The bite marks had also been suspiciously pointy and _big_ for a human jaw.

Still, Magical Creatures were called that for a reason. They weren't _human_. Oh, they were intelligent. But they had different abilities, cultures, practices, upbringings… Rules. Expecting John to play by human rules when there was no-one he had to hide his nature from would have been unrealistic, and unfair.

What had surprised Harry the most was himself. The instinctive _anger_ at having his order ignored, burning white hot for a second. Apparently broadcasting strong enough through the bond to make John jolt from his meal, and oddly, not return to it. He wasn't even going to touch on the urge to take a bite out of the tantalisingly nice smelling corpse, either.

John was very quiet returning from that trip.

Almost worryingly so.

Even more worrying was how John never charged off like that after, and actually seemed to _pay attention_.

The world was ending, he was certain of it.

Of course, as if to remind him of the fact it already had, the peace shattered in true Camp Caper, melodramatic style.

-Line Break -

The morning did not start well. For Harry, anyway.

When someone is a Veteran of a War that includes loud explosions and imminent threat when rising from unconsciousness (and if being held by Voldieshorts as a prisoner didn't count as that, nothing would), the one thing you _don't do_ is wake them up with loud, abrupt noises.

John, apparently, hadn't gotten this particular message. Or more likely, did, and then proceeded to completely ignore it.

So he jolted from unconsciousness with a startle, wings hitching up to take flight automatically and lurching forward to a booming shout of-

"Brotherrrrr!"

\- Right underneath his chosen tree for the night. The incongruity of a somewhat welcome voice and _loud-sound-fight-danger-_ had made his half-awake brain stutter, motion frozen, and the result had been a very undignified pivot around the branch, hanging upside down like a demented bat, wings half extended.

He glared death at the cause, promising a painful end. It didn't effect John's laughter one bit.

So he'd grumpily dropped into a dive and taken his frustration out on the Dark Sprites hair in passing, claws barely skimming the scalp. It'd been almost satisfying to hear the yelp even as he transformed mid-air to land on two legs.

By the time he'd gotten to the camp proper, he'd calmed down somewhat, though John was keeping a careful half step between them as they walked. And kept on rubbing at the side of his head with what was meant to be inaudible grumbles.

Inventive curses, Harry had to give him that if nothing else.

"You deserved it, you big baby." He eventually sniped back. John glared, but subsided.

Sleepy nods greeted them from the Campers that were awake, Dale's greeting almost cheery with what was clearly coffee in hand, ones he returned wordlessly with the sole intention of claiming a cup of his own. The mugs Andrea handed him, careful _not_ to look at the dark presence hovering by his elbow, smelled burnt and looked worse.

Apparently, burning water was a family trait. But, in the end, caffeine was caffeine.

He'd finished the dregs by the time the camp began stirring in earnest, Glenn almost impossibly chipper given the fact he'd had watch that night, the Dixon's similarly getting their fix of dark goodness (or possibly averageness in this case) and retreating to the corner of the group.

And then Shane emerged from the forest, looking far too awake and pleased with himself. Harry would have bet his entire (now useless) fortune that Lori would emerge from the same spot after three minutes or so.

Hmm. Maybe he should start a betting pool.

He was distracted when Shane clapped a hand on his shoulder in apparent camaraderie, a broad grin on his face.

"James, feel like stretching your leg's today?"

 _Not like Lori I'm bloody well not_. He had to bite his tongue to stop the retort. No good would come of it, and for once, Shane actually seemed to be in a good mood.

"Depends on what you mean."

"Supply run in Atlanta." The smile fell. "We need to get movin' soon, and we ain't got half the stuff we need for it."

Harry shrugged. It was no skin off his nose. Apparently that was reply enough.

"Glenn, T-Dog. You're up too, if you want. Need people that can lift, get in short and sharp." Both nodded, T-Dog a little wey faced for the thought. But the man had been trying to get into more runs, to get used to the grittier parts of the lifestyle for all that he didn't seem to have the stomach for it all the time. It seemed Jacqui's intervention had been timely.

"I'm going." Strong words, in a hard voice. Andrea had her arms folded, posture reminiscent of Amy's when she was fighting a battle she was determined not to lose. "You're gonna need light, quick, as well. An' guns to cover your backs."

The staring match that developed between leader and rebellious follower made Harry itch with the urge to just Stun the two. Why did everything in this group have to be a bloody battle of wills?

"Can you fire?" Shane challenged, the rest of the group watching it like it was a tennis match.

"Sure. Not that hard, is it?" Andrea was nearly glaring, jaw knotted. Issuing a challenge of her own.

Glenn looked like he wanted to run for the hills – the guy really didn't like conflict, and it was his bad fortune that this group seemed to thrive on it – but still seemed to steel himself.

"Shouldn't run into that much trouble. In, out. And we've got lucky so far." He interjected.

By now the entire Camp was watching the argument. Shane seemed torn between giving a verbal beating to the stubborn woman and sighing. He settled on the latter.

"Fine. But you're taking a couple of others then, if you think we need that many damn guns." The blonde woman almost objected, but stayed her tongue. Huh. Even she knew a losing battle when she saw one, then. "Morales… Merle."

The Dixon didn't jolt, but his eyes flickered up with a calculating gleam.

"Now ya'll hang on. I aint no babysitter, Officer Eastwood."

"Ain't asking you to be." Shane rebutted. "Just enjoy the ride an' shoot geeks. Ain't rocket science."

Another tense moment, during which Harry reflected that it was far too early for this kind of Soap Opera bullshit, and Merle looked away with a snort.

And with that, it seemed the daily drama was over. People split to various tents, things were gathered, and Glenn started to check over the truck they would be taking with Dale.

He was himself about to head off, to wash up a little in the stream, when a pouting John and comment caught him completely unawares and startled a full body laugh out of him.

"What am I, chopped liver?"

He didn't think John was ever going to forgive him for it, but dear _God's that teenage whine._


	11. Family Day out

A scouting run in Atlanta was always a tense affair.

Unless you were John, but then, for him anything that represented a chance to stretch his legs, run at corpses and merrily whistle 'Hi Ho' along the way seemed a day out to Disneyland. For Harry at least _those_ supply run's were always fun, though he was sure the other's would disagree. It would never get boring, watching as the whole group tried _not_ to be the ones sitting next to the Dark Sprite, nearly ending up in each other's laps to hilarious results and insults before they set off.

But yes, even absent of his free entertainment system, a supply run to Atlanta seemed to make everyone tense as a board, and very aware of their own mortality. Silence was the golden rule, as though a stray sound would shatter peace of mind and bring a horde on their heads.

Today seemed to be an exception, and Harry wasn't sure he appreciated it.

"So where we'all goin'?"

Not that it was Dixon's fault. Merle actually had a good reason to be talking, practicality trumping any nostalgic, death-fearing thought processes he may have had.

Glenn looked like someone had asked him the exact airspeed of a coconut laden swallow. Whether it was because Merle had finally revealed that, yes, he was capable of not cursing every second word, or because the man had acknowledged his existence without the title 'Chinaman', Harry wasn't sure. Either way, Glenn took a couple of moments to reboot from it.

"There's a shopping district. Couple of malls. Not far from the outskirts, shouldn't be too many Walker's." The Korean's voice gained strength as he continued, though Harry noticed he didn't meet Merle's gaze.. "There's a back route that could get us there, we can avoid the worst of the population through those."

Merle hummed, seemingly placated.

The two were in the cab, Harry and the other's crammed in the back with an illegal lack of seat-belts. Not that most seemed to care beyond the surprisingly uncomfortable lack of seats. He was regretting giving Merle the front space, though not because of the accommodation.

"What if we crash?!" The outburst made him want to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Ye Gods. Ravenous undead in the streets and she was worried about seat belts.

It didn't seem to make any difference to Andrea that Glenn was a markedly safer driver than Shane. The woman was braced against a wall between Morales and T-Dog, laughably as far from Merle or Harry as she could possibly get. The main reason that the usual quiet was shattered, and probably a large part of how he had a headache. She hadn't shut up about the lack of safe seating since her first look in the van, and was now looking a little wild around the edges.

"I'm sure we won't." Morales ventured, looking just as uncomfortable as she did. Though probably more for how she was trying bracing herself between the two men than because of any imagined horror. Morales wasn't very touchy-feely outside of his family, he'd noticed.

"But what if we do?" She insisted.

He couldn't help a sigh, effectively drawing eyes.

"Then you'll have more to worry about than bruises and whiplash. A crash in a Van this size? That's noise, potential fuel leak, and too heavy to put upright quickly." He gave a sharp look, ignoring the collective wince through the others. "That's an explosive, horde-attracting mixture if ever I've heard one."

She flinched, even as she glared. But didn't – probably couldn't – retort.

Blessed silence fell, only the sound of the engine throbbing through the chassis. He knew better than to count his blessings. Andrea was nervous, scared, angry and trying desperately to fit in at the same time as hold this post-apocalyptic world to now defunct safety standards.

Trying to return her thoughts to the familiar, the safe, the _known_ , rather than the looming spectre of Atlanta. There was no way that could be the end of it.

 _Five… Four…Three…_

"Why did we take the van anyway?"

He understood, had been there, teetering on the brink and trying desperately not to fall. To distract himself or pretend. He really did.

But Andrea was getting annoying, quickly.

 **-Line Break -**

Prior to this apocalyptic disaster, Harry rarely had reason to think about the implications of using magic around non-magical folk. While collateral damage happened, a Wizarding War's combatants usually were aware and used it as much as he had.

After, however, he found himself thinking about it all too often.

Like now, for instance. Surrounded by Shamblers and fighting them off with bow and arrow when he could immolate the entire horde with a well-aimed _Incendio_ or _Fiendfyre_ felt like an inefficient waste of time, and somewhat pointless. And, had the Magical Congress of the good old US of A still been in action, he probably wouldn't even have gotten into trouble for it.

A memory charm here, some corpse duplication there, and the group at his back would walk happily away thinking they'd had a close shave and never think deeper about it. Because like any law, the Statute of Secrecy had loop-holes.

As much as it was intended to protect the Wizards from the Muggles, and the muggles from unscrupulous Wizards not against using things like mind control where it could benefit them, even the up-tight Wizenmagot and International Confederation of Wizarding Matters had had to allow that there were grey areas. Using Magic to save a muggles life, after all, couldn't really be punished as distasteful as it would have seemed at the time it was made. To save your own life or property in self-defence, equally, couldn't really be called wrong. The exceptions weren't well advertised, but they were there.

And how very dearly he wanted to take advantage at this point, hand itching to get his wand and set the whole damn lot aflame. Horde of corpses, apparently acting on a herd instinct. Check. Terrified group shooting things left, right and centre making more noise. Check. Probably a dead end alley their only escape route? Well, that just figured.

"Where're we going, Glenn?" The Korean man didn't even look round at his question, too busy shooting. "Glenn!"

"I don't know yet!" Came the yell. "Just let me think, man!"

"I would think fast." Morales interjected, mid shot.

The scouting run had, until about ten minutes ago, been going swimmingly. Glenn had been a sure guide through Atlanta's maze-like streets, and the Shambler population had been lower than expected – the roads almost deserted. At the time he'd wondered about that one – the corpses moved even when they shouldn't, they couldn't have rotted beyond being able to that quickly.

He was wondering no longer: they were grouping together, becoming cohesive packs or hordes. Which was a bad, _bad thing_. But thinking about that would have to wait until they'd been granted the luxury of getting out whole and uninfected.

Because as much as T-Dog was a nice man, and trying, he still had yet to master hand eye co-ordination. Or foot-eye co-ordination, in this case. Kicking a bin and swearing your head off about it, whilst an understandable reaction to smarting toes, was not the smartest thing to do in a city full of Shamblers that hunted primarily by sound.

What had him really wanting to wring the man's neck, though, was a continued inability to aim straight (wasting ammo), the sharp retort of a shot-gun ringing in his sensitive hearing like a Ever-lasting bomb.

...Sometimes he really, really _hated_ having sharp senses.

"That's not helping!" Glenn seemed to yelp. As understandable as it was, if they didn't get out of there soon not very much _could_ have helped the lot of them.

It was almost automatic to continue loosing arrows even as his eyes wondered, scanning for an exit – _any exit_ – from the trap the group had inadvertently funnelled themselves into. Dead end alley, yep. The horde on their heels was too big to circumvent without having something to draw them off, which with the way the group was panicking _loudly_ was an effort doomed to failure. The fire-power they were packing would have been enough, in a pinch, in experienced hands, but clearly the people he had at his back were anything but.

If Andrea came out of this scrape alive, he was never, ever letting her go on a supply run again. Not that hard to fire a gun? Tell that to the handgun she was trying and _failing to fire at all._ If he had to hazard a guess, he would have said she'd not taken the safety off. But without getting her to stop screaming like a loony there was no way in hell he was going to be able to tell her that.

Besides, if she didn't know about the safety, chances were they were safer without her being able to fire bullets. Merlin alone knew what her aim was like.

 _Exit-Way out-_

Merle was giving a good accounting of himself, at least. The man clearly knew his pistol, recoil and all. Every shot from the handgun he'd holstered on his belt was to the head, and didn't miss.

A gleam of metal caught his eye, and even with the urgency instilled by snarled moans of hungry undead, competing with the voices of Camp Caper's resident idiots, he had the strong urge to facepalm.

Ladders. The alley was littered with cat-walk fire-escapes, bold as brass against pale brick, and here he was convinced there was no way out of the damn place.

"Oy, Banshees!" That garnered him some half-hearted, wide eyed glares even through the terror. "Look up!"

Merle was the first to do so, a fleeting glance mid reload, and he could see the comprehension and almost satisfied relief the moment the man saw the same. Glenn wasn't far along. The other Camper's seemed too fixated on panicking, looking at it but not seeing the wood for the trees.

"Cat-walks!" Their defacto leader almost laughed, Morales quick to catch on. "C'mon guys!"

Their little herd was quick to catch on, running for the ladder access with the people with weapons firing into the still on-coming horde. Andrea, predictably, made sure to climb up first, Glenn and T-Dog next. He, Morales and Merle were now gathered in a ring, taking out the lead Shamblers. Thankfully the build up of bodies was starting to slow the tide.

 _Nock-draw-Loose-Nock-_

Morales caught his eye, jerking his head towards the ladder, questioning. Harry nodded empathetically back even as he released an arrow. Merle followed the latino man without even a glance in his direction. Which was good – there was a reason Harry had stayed last.

Ignoring the raised voices of the others-

"James! What the hell-?!"

-he raised his bow again.

It had everything to do with the once-female corpse in the middle of the pack, Auror robes torn but still recognisable, snarling with anticipation rather then hunger and arms not reaching. Pack leader. If the Shamblers were an unco-ordinated army, this was the scatter-brained General.

 _Nock. Draw._

"Sorry, Milady." _Loose._

One less Magical Zombie to contend with. One less intelligent hazard to risk when exiting the building.

He slipped the bow over his shoulder and scaled the Ladder with almost Cat-like grace, landing by the others just in time to help pull the ladder up.

"What the hell did you think you were doing?!"

...While it was nice that she worried, he reflected, the condescending tone could definitely bugger off.

Otherwise, he was going to punch her one of these days.

 **-Line break-**

It turned out the building they'd broken into a super-store of a kind, stocking everything from clothes to hunting supplies (he took the chance to nab arrow-heads as soon as he saw it), food to Opticians. It was almost a shopping centre in of itself, and grudgingly, he had to admit that at least one objective of the scouting run would be achieved. All it was missing was a coffee shop, and he was sure if they looked hard enough they'd find one.

What was more surprising was the lack of Shamblers. That wasn't to say it was empty – luck would never be that kind – but it was at least bearable. Honestly, after the adrenalin-fueled entrance a dozen in an entire floor seemed almost anticlimactic.

On entering, blissful silence also descended. Free of a ravenous following, most of the Group's need to scream, yell and otherwise throw 'Why Me?!' Tantrums faded. Instead, they seemed to see the value of not making noise with auditory predators on their heels.

On a more personal level, he was just glad not to be constantly deafened.

Glenn went off in the dried food aisle almost before they'd cleared the area; the man had a gift for finding what that was needed, nutritionally balanced and long lasting. And more importantly, knew how to pack it in order to maximise space. Andrea hovered, not sure who to follow or what to start gathering in, and clearly uncomfortable with asking. And apparently happy to stand still in a corner without actually doing anything, like guarding Glenn's back. Merle seemed to share his opinion on this, even if the man would word it differently: the scornful looks said it all.

T-Dog, like Glenn, seemed to have a gift. A knack for judging people's sizes, and picking out clothes that were practical. The group didn't seem to appreciate it at first – as odd as the mental image of T-Dog as a personal-dressier and assistant was – but when the colder months started kicking in, he had the feeling the guy was going to get requests coming out of his ears.

Harry himself was raiding the Hunting part of the store. Super glue, fishing wire, and pre-made snares were useful, as were the survival kits, whereas he was sure that Daryl would appreciate a fresh supply of bolts. He liked making his own arrows, he'd noticed Daryl do the same, but the plastic ones would fly faster if the need ever arose.

Morales accompanied him for a little while, asking questions about what he was collecting, before getting bored and drifting to find someone to guard. The man had already stashed a few things in his pack by the bulge, set on keeping his family fairly self-sufficient. Not a bad attitude to have. Merle seemed to operate on the same basis, though perhaps with different needs. Harry would have bet that the pharmacy part had been thoroughly raided of anything useful already, but if there had been anything left, it was probably keeping the man company now.

Despite the constant watch for intruders, or Shamblers, it all felt rather domestic actually.

Just a normal post-apocalyptic shopping trip. As you do.

Though it was ironic that it was the _customers_ literally committing daylight robbery now.

He eyed a kids archery set speculatively, before giving a mental shrug and stuffing four of them in his bottomless pouch. If Carl didn't like neon pink, the boy could deal with it.

And then, peace was shattered. Shots, loud and demanding immediately followed by what could only be described as howls.

He bolted towards the others without a second thought.

It wasn't the shots themselves that were alarming. They may even be called a normal occurrence in these times, if a stupidly loud one.

It was the fact they didn't come from the roof, or even their building.

Someone was in the street.

 **-Line Break-**

His first impression of the perpetrator was that he was an idiot of the tallest order.

Going into a city of the undead with no armour, no melee weapon, and a small hand-gun with limited ammo? Foolish. Even Morales and the others tended to wear armour, like the riot armour they'd gathered two or three run's ago, where they could. And silent kills were always preferable over noise... Camp Caper's own idiocy in the face of Shambler numbers larger than ten aside.

He was working on them, alright? They'd get better, eventually…

Riding into Atlanta on horseback with only the above, in the open? Irrefutably stupid. Granted, the man had redeemed himself slightly by being intelligent enough to hide rather than run, but still. His point stood.

Glenn took one look and shot off, probably to rescue said idiot, but it took the others notably longer to realise both what the ruckus was about, and where the Korean had headed. Andrea was not pleased, hard eyed and pacing like a caged tiger. And then annoyed when her restless behaviour was ignored. Merle was apparently reserving judgement, watching with a neutral expression. The other's just seemed rather stricken by it, an odd mix of sadness and resignation playing out.

Harry… Well. Essentially, he settled in to watch the show. Glenn was a smart lad; he would work it out, somehow, and he wouldn't have forgiven himself if he hadn't tried.

Whether or not that successful rescue would benefit the group, given the man's actions so far, would be another matter entirely.

He watched with interest and an odd craving for crisps as the chatter for T-Dog's radio painted a clear picture of happenings.

"Hey you." Came Glenn's crackly voice. "Dumbass." Harry had to fight not to laugh. Yep. Glenn needed a filter as much as anyone. "You in the tank. Cozy in there?"

Harry cracked up.

 **-REVIEW REPLIES-**

Many thanks for the reviews, appreciated :) I'm glad that others like the story as much as it has been fun to write. I was in a bit of a dilemma with this one: on one hand, I could miss out Rick and the plot of the show entirely or work through it with a Harry twist. I've yet to decide which yet, and I'm kinda going where-ever my imagination takes me.

As to John... Well. there's more to him than 'Death', and he'll definitely be impacting Harry more as things develop. Have a good one.


	12. Whack-A-Mole

His craving for crisps had yet to fade.

Salt and vinegar, beautifully thin crisps full of flavour.

Not perhaps what he should have been concentrating on given the life or death situation playing out below them. But at least it kept him occupied, and had the added bonus of distracting him from antsy Camp Caper residents trying to wear a hole in the floor.

Glenn was guiding the police officer from the tank. To the man's credit, he was taking being trapped in a metal tin with a ravenous horde banging on the sides rather well, for all the panicked trigger-happy behaviour he'd been showing before. Well enough to be sarcastic anyway.

-"Go-go-go-go-go-!"- Shouted the radio, making some of the more engrossed viewers jump.

The man opened the top and booked it, disappearing round the corner, Glenn clearly encouraging him all the way. Not that the guy seemed to need it. Terror lending wings to your feet indeed.

"Should we… help him?" The uncertain suggestion emerged in the tense silence, soft but as distracting as the gun-shots had been. More surprising was the source.

Andrea looked rather like she wanted to swallow her tongue, but met the groups raised eyebrows unflinchingly. There was a round of traded looks but no real conclusion to be drawn; Merle looked rather like someone had just suggested making mud tea (or possibly coffee), Morales uneasy, T-Dog as conflicted as she was. Harry… Well, he probably looked how he felt. Bored.

Which was why when he zoned back in, he was surprised to note that every single pair of eyes was fastened on him.

"What?" Did he have something on his face or something?

"Follow the leader, twinkle-toes." Was Merle's ironic grunt. Follow the lead-? What? Oh Merlins over-praised beard, hell no, _never again_ -

"…Dammit." Was what made it to the air, more resigned than anything else. _Not his group not his responsibility?_ Yeah right.

He took a second to deliberate, before giving a mental shrug.

"Well, I was getting bored anyway." And didn't Sods Law have a funny way of solving it. "Shall we adjourn downstairs to let them in?"

People smiled and shared decisive nods, apparently satisfied with that or feeling useful at all. Merle just gave him a knowing look that had him half tempted to blow a raspberry in return, in true Gryffindor style.

 **-Line break –**

One-two-three- _Splat_. Hear a moan and repeat.

Killing Shamblers was rather like playing Whack-A-Mole, with higher stakes and sound cues. And – he shook his machete off with distaste – a great deal more mess.

They'd made it to the bottom with surprisingly little incident, aside from T-Dog's lack of co-ordination striking again. This time the protest had been moaned and the perpetrator a clothes rail, so at least there was some improvement for all involved. Though he had a feeling T-Dog would have disagreed.

On deciding to open the door, though, it got rather complicated. Without their leader, the horde had started to drift apart again – something he noted with a cautious sense of hope – but that didn't mean the area was Shambler free. It just meant the resulting attack was unco-ordinated – which was good in the sense of less numbers, but bad, as it could come from any random direction.

Still, timing seemed to be on their side. They'd opened the door just as Glenn and his stray (apparently rather starved) duckling had appeared from a gantry, so extraction had been rather quick and easy. The group were starting to get used to working together, killing silently, and that as well was a source of cautious hope.

Maybe they might last this bloody inconvenient apocalypse without him having to risk attracting a horde on their heads. Or at least, be able to deal with it if he had to.

Speaking of Glenn's new pet, the man seemed a tad unusual. And coming from him, that tended to mean stark raving bonkers. Wild eyed like a cornered rat, thin to the extreme, the man looked one step away from either collapsing, being blown away by a stiff breeze or attacking. It was a pitiful sight, and he could kind of understand Glenn's urge to adopt the bloke. He looked like he _needed_ it.

Not that Andrea seemed to get this impression, or if she did, couldn't give a flying monkey.

Because her first action was to rail at the man.

"What the hell did you think you were doing!" The gun waved wildly in the man's direction would have been more threatening had the safety been off, but he wasn't going to point this out if paid. Though, it was novel that her ire was directed at someone else. "You've just literally rung the dinner bell! They're attracted to noise!"

Her manners needed work. Mrs Weasley would have shouted herself hoarse at her by now.

"I don't think that's helping." T-Dog interjected, obviously frustrated and a good deal more aware of the banging at the store front than her. "Glenn, man, we need-"

"Like you can talk!" Punctuated by another flailed arm which had half the group instinctively ducking.

Harry coughed, politely behind his hand. It may or may not have resembled the word 'hypocrite', but either way it had the desired effect of gaining everyone's attention.

"If we're done throwing mud at eachother, perhaps we ought to move?"

The words were underlined by what had to be a horde knocking on the glass and a resounding crack. In the silence it had the same percussive effect of a funeral bell.

"I'll try the others." T-Dog was the first to recover. "Either way, we need to get out of here."

"Yeah. I know. But with that-" The crescendo of knocking Shamblers made the point without the Korean needing to continue.

While T-Dog was busy with the radio, Harry wondered to where the shell-shocked duckling was trying to acclimate to no longer being in immediate danger of being eaten.

"James." He stuck a hand out, and watched as it was automatically – if weakly – shaken.

"Rick. Rick Grimes." The man's voice strengthened as his eyes focused. "Sheriff. Or I guess I was."

"Surviving?" He asked ironically, and was rewarded by a bitter smile in return.

"Just." Rick laughed a little, the sound strained. "Thanks t'your friend there."

"That's Glenn." The man waved distractedly. "Blondie is Andrea." A glare. "Bald coot is T-Dog, and the man dressed like the riot police is Morales." Harry hummed, half looking for Merle. "There is another one of us, but-"

 _Bang._

The rest of the sentence was going to be ' _I don't know where he's got to.'_ The sound, while becoming incredibly repetitive, would have made that patently untrue.

"-He seems to be following your sterling example at this moment in time." He finished with a sigh and ignored the wince from the other man. "Excuse me a moment, won't you, Officer?"

He stalked off, ignoring the rest of the idiots doing impressions of headless chickens, and made for the stairs with a tick in his eye.

- **line break –**

Sometimes he hated being right. Loathed it, actually. In this case, all that really could be summoned was a sense of tired amusement.

It was Merle, with a rifle, firing into the crowd of Shamblers.

Glenn was on his heels, and there was a sharp intake of breath behind him as it became evident to their defacto leader as well.

"Don't worry about it." Harry sighed. "I'll sort out the twat. Just stop the rest of our flock poking their noses in."

"You sure?" Glenn really didn't like conflict, it was true, but you couldn't fault his sense of responsibility.

"Hmmm-hmm." He returned. "Can you imagine the fight that would cause? Try finding a way out or something. We need that more than we need him to shut up." Glenn nodded, apparently resigned to the logic. They were fucked either way if they couldn't get out.

"Good luck, man."

Footsteps retreated, and then raised voices on the stairwell. But at least they seemed to be fading.

"You'd think we were fucked enough without attracting more hungry mouths." He mused, closing the door with a decisive click.

"Whatever, nancy-boy." Merle grunted back, reloading smoothly and taking aim. "No other fucker seems to be doing a thing 'bout it." Points to the man, he couldn't fault him on that.

 _Bang._

"…And this improves anything how?" Genuinely curious, he waited for the answer. And was rewarded by Merle pointing the rifle down.

"With that lot down there? Ain't exactly hurting, is it?" The blue eyes were distinctly hard edged and unapologetic, and whatever they were looking for in his seemed to satisfy Merle, because he went bad to aiming

"Not helping either." He returned mildly. "We're low on ammo. Haven't had time to hit a gun store because of the latest idiot."

"Bad news." Merle grunted, though whether about the ammunition or the officer was anyone's guess. Probably both. Still, the man didn't fire again, so Harry counted it as a win. "The walker's have leaders, like a wolf pack, don't they?"

…Well, that was unexpected. He blinked a little.

"Just about." He allowed.

"How'd you pick them out?" And that was harder to answer. Part of it was behavioural, but part of it was essentially the magical population's atrocious sense of fashion. Merlin, that was going to be hard to explain.

"Behaviour, mostly." He settled on. "They tend to stand more still, don't moan as much. Think tactically, to a degree. Hang back on the edges and not directly attack unless you're directly under their nose. And when they look, they _look_. Actually examine. Different kind of focus."

The man jerked his chin to the writhing mass below.

"Who's the leader here, then?"

"There's not." He determined after a short study. "That's just horde feeding behaviour. We made an awful lot of noise on our entrance and a fuck load more since. There's a reason I use a bow."

Merle's eyes seemed to study hard, trying to pick him apart by sight alone. "How can you tell?"

"Disarray. Every time there's a horde with a Lead, they tend to try and think their way around the problem." He hummed contemplatively, thinking back. The attack on Fort Grim had been rather co-ordinated for brainless, soulless beings. "No prey directly under their nose? They'd be surrounding the building, looking for weak spots, rather than clumped just trying to push their way in. Least that's what's happened before."

The man actually seemed to be thinking about that, nodding a slow agreement.

"How come you said nothin' before?" Not condemning, but certainly not friendly either.

"What difference would it make? They're merlin-damned sheep, following the leader." He grunted in return. "They can't even fight in a co-ordinated group yet, you think they're going to be able to co-ordinate an attack to take out key enemies?"

The silence was a damning, unspoken agreement.

"Best get to it before they come up with another suicidal plan." And probably before they tried to put it in action, as well. He turned before he got to the door. "Coming?"

Merle grunted, apparently his main mode of communication, but nevertheless followed.

…The Dixon brothers were definitely the more interesting of the bunch.


	13. Gingerbread Man

Run, run as fast as you can...

Awkwardness seemed to be the rule of the day.

Even Andrea was stewing close lipped, a welcome change from the day so far. The new survivor seemed to have the same depressive effect as finding out the in-laws were going to stay round – unwelcome, demanding polite treatment and generally the killer of meaningful conversation. Not that there was much of that around before, really.

Harry was just glad that there was – finally – some kind of quiet. It was refreshing not to be shrieked, talked or moaned at – whether the Shambler or Human kind.

Of course, like all blessings, it couldn't last.

"So, where you from man?"

Only Glenn seemed to be making an effort to include the stray. Seeing that particular verbal minefield in action would actually be mildly interesting– there was only so much you could ask before it inevitably moved to the inconvenient apocalypse and the oh-so-cheerful topics it included.

The Korean seemed to be game to try though.

"Small town not far from here. Georgia." Rick jolted from his study of the Van's occupants. "Nice ta meet ya'll."

Morales nodded, Glenn responded in kind. Merle didn't even deign to look.

"So what, were you police or something?"

"Sheriff. Out of action for a while though - stand off gone wrong." Harry couldn't help quirking an eyebrow. There was an absurd Clint Eastwood-esque mental image if ever there was one.

"So what're you doin' here?" Andrea looked rather like she regretted asking as Rick turned to look at her.

"Woke up in hospital from a coma. No-one there, livin' anyway." And... There was depressing topic number one. "Headed out soon as I got to the gun locker."

"Hell of a way to find out about the apocalypse." Glenn sympathised, clearly.

"Tell me about it." Rick's mouth formed a humourless smile that looked deathly against gaunt features.

"How'd you get there?"

"Nothin' that bears repeatin'." And there was topic number two, a touchy one definitely. "What about ya'll? I got the run down, but got a bit distracted what with corpses at the door."

"No thanks to you."

Huh. The stray had a hooded death glare. Who knew? Certainly Andrea hadn't expected it, clearly taken aback by the silent challenge.

"I'm Glenn, pizza boy by day and scavenger by night." And Glenn could apparently brush it off as easy as water off a ducks back. Give the man points for spine. "Morales, he came by camp a while ago with his family. Andrea, she's with her sister – used to be an accountant or something?" Andrea glared like the man'd revealed sensitive information. "Dixon, he's a Hunter, get's most of our food along with his brother. And-"

Harry blinked when the finger swung in his direction.

"-That there's James. He... pretty much does everything, came from the UK."

"UK?" A shocked pause. "Really?"

Were all yanks this oblivious?

"No, clearly I'm from New York." Harry drawled when a response seemed to be required. Rick blinked in... something, the rest of the back of the truck seeming to follow his example – with the exception of Merle, who was driving, face ducking suspiciously quickly from the rear view mirror, and Morales, whose latino descent apparently leant some understanding of sarcasm.

"C'mon man, that wasn't nice." T-Dog tried to admonish – only to duck uncomfortably away from his deadpan look.

"All Brit's like you?" Rick recovered nicely.

"Like what?"

"Snarky dicks." Hmm, the man wanted to play, did he?

"Only when we meet idiotic lemmings." He smiled in reply, the very image of polite geniality.

Rick seemed to concede that with a huff, in contrast to the challenge Andrea had all but been burned with. Huh. Interesting.

The man was picking his battles. Not so much of a lemming as he seemed.

Silence resumed. People picked at their nails, looked at the bench, floor, ceiling and generally everything but each-other. With the exception of Rick, who seemed to be categorising everyone. By the meaningful lingering glances on weapons, armour and the concentration on the loose-lipped Glenn, by threat and information value probably. Harry leaned forward despite himself, interest caught: lemming or stray wolf?

Well, this had gotten more lively.

"So, what've ya'll been up to?"

He was briefly disappointed John wasn't there. The reaction to his answer would been entertaining to see.

"Surviving mostly; hunting, supply runs, scouted out the city a while back for survivors." Glenn shrugged. And there was depressing topic number three. Really, it wasn't shaping up to the sunniest of conversations.

Then again, not much was these days.

"Many survivors in the city?" Casing out the competition: or options. Hmm.

"Not that we've managed to find. Luck's been with us though, on the supplies." Glenn tried to alleviate the mood. "They're either hiding _really_ well, or..." He didn't need to finish.

"So what about your group? Ya'll said that there were more."

Harry himself cut in here, with a pleasant smile.

"You'll meet them, I'm sure." Rick gave him a steady look. "You'll get along fine."

Subject very much _closed_ ; he sent a look to Glenn, by far the biggest leak of information so far, to get the point across. Keeping the man off-guard at this point was preferable.

Lemming ,poor stray, wolf or not, this man was sharp and he was looking for an angle. Understandable: not every group was friendly and certainly the Zombie hoard had made the worst parts of human-kind emerge from the shadows unbelievably fast. Amazing how quickly the veneer of polite society fell, Muggle or Magical.

Equally, a lone suicidal drifter that had pitiful puppy eyes and a convenient back-story wasn't something to be trusted from the word go, either. The War had taught him the value of spies – and catching on to them – all too well. And in this world?

The chances of it were all too high.

\- - - - - line break - - - -

They arrived in the camp with little fanfare.

Well, in comparison to Glenn's wonderful plan of revving up a Sports Car as distraction and racing up to the camp, which had been vetoed strongly by the more level-headed (temporarily, he was sure) of the group.

At least it had made them laugh, which he was almost certain had been half of the Korean's aim. Well, he _hoped_ it had been. God's help the group if that was the calibre of his plans on scouting missions when a new factor was introduced.

On a side note, covering yourself in corpse guts apparently masked your scent.

Of course, nothing could stop the melodrama for long. And unfortunately, it seemed even Rick was going to be a source. The last name had tipped him off – to an extent; how many people could stand the family name _Grimes_? - but apparently the people in the Van hadn't tried to put two and two together. Because the moment they disembarked and the now three Grimes of the camp laid eyes on eachother, there was a tearful reunion and a lot of hugging in plain sight.

For some reason, this was startling for everyone else – though Shane's face seemed to grow a momentary thundercloud.

Wasn't hard to work out why – he and Lori had been doing impressions of Rabbits for weeks, if not longer. Lori was clearly Rick's wife, and the resemblance was there in Carl too.

Huh. Well, he supposed nothing would ever be boring in camp, at least.

Though whether that was a blessing or curse... He would reserve judgement on that one.

High emotion short circuited objective thinking, and that sort of thing could get people _killed_. Easily. Rick had obviously been a part of Shane's team, but the one in charge. For all that it got the man's back up, the leader automatically took the second seat in even their first conversation in camp, fresh from the truck. The problem? Shane _liked_ being in charge, and took to people ordering him about as well as he took people not listening to his own. Like a cat in the middle of a surprise shower, claws out, yowling and hackles raised.

Just how far was he willing to give, and how far was Rick going to push?

He gave up the speculation when he noticed the Dixon's circling the camp, obviously keeping an eye on the not-quite-so-unknown stranger with weapons clearly visible.

He exchanged a nod with them, as wary as they were, but shouldered his own weapons in order to go hunting.

He could trust them to watch the camp, at least. Still, this newest complication wasn't going away easily, a sense of unease bugging him like an itch that wouldn't be scratched.

No, it definitely wouldn't be boring.

He had a feeling he was going to curse that particular fact.

\- - - - - line break - - - -

Rick, it turned out, was as much of a control freak as Shane in his own way. Sure, he was gentler about it: pointed questions instead of near threats and accusations, diversions, but he wanted to know what was going on in camp just as much as Shane had. Whether it was part of him trying to take Leadership, no matter how subconsciously, or scoping the group out remained to be seen.

But either way, Harry returned from his midnight hunting excursion to a revolver being shoved at him, and then meaningless apologies. There a day and already on watch: damn, these people were too trusting sometimes.

"James – sorry, didn't see ya clearly." Hmm, maybe, maybe not. He still hadn't managed to disprove the man was an opportunistic scavenger or spy, family connections or no. Rick was playing his cards too close to his chest, and it was too early to tell.

"Not an issue." He returned. Given his experience with Shane, Rick had actually been comparatively slow off the mark when it came to threatening him with a gun.

"Didn't tell no-one you were goin'. Ain't safe y'know." He blinked: and? There was a point here? "You were out a while. Catch anythin' good?"

…Yet another obvious answer. Still, politeness and all that jazz.

"Enough." And it would be: the latest supply run had shored up the stores nicely. The tricky bit now was how to move the damn stuff with an uncertain supply of petrol. Food hadn't actually been strictly necessary at this point, stores being what they were, but he'd had to do something about the restless energy.

Something about today was unsettling, enough that he'd nearly risked renewing the ward without being 100% sure no-one was looking – now, with most people if not sleeping, doing chores, it was high on his to-do list. If he'd half the dramatic flare Trelawney had, he'd have described it as ill-omen's being in the air.

Thankfully, he'd never been one to wave his hands around and shout things like that at the top of his lungs. It'd probably scare the sheeple senseless.

"You hunt out there often?" Probing, but what was the end game?

"Most nights." He allowed. "Scout out the Shambler numbers as well as stocking up."

Rick eyed him, an almost imperceptible tightening around his eyes.

"There're corpses up here?"

He gave the man a look, wondering whether his brains were all there.

"Where aren't they, these days?"

Shane at least would have huffed. Rick looked vaguely green, like he'd just been told he'd eaten a maggot in his rice bowl. Soft... or a good actor.

"Ain't nowhere safe these days, huh."

Harry gave him an easy grin.

"Where would be the fun in that?"

Rick visibly shook himself from his thoughts.

"You an' the Dixon's the only hunters, then?"

He grunted. Let the man make of that what he would. For now, he had camp protections to check on and until he had an accurate read on the man, there was no way he was ready for the depth of conversation the man seemed to want.

He threw the brace of rabbits at him, and turned away.

"Sort 'em out or pass them to Daryl. I'm going to check the perimeter."

Eyes drilled a hole in his back, though whether it was Rick, Shane or the Dixon's he couldn't tell. All of them had been listening in.

\- - - - - line break - - - -

It turned out his gut had been right.

In this case, anyway. In woods where Shamblers hadn't so far shown so much as a rotten face, Can's on string acting as a kind of Cowbell had been perfectly alright as a line of defence to Shane and the others.

Maybe not the Dixons, but then who listened to them?

Idiots the lot of them.

The moment he'd had the time and materials, that had changed – because by Merlin's baggy Y-fronts a system that damn weak wasn't going to cut it as a barrier, and he'd replaced it when they had access to barbed wire. They had a virtual circular fence of the stuff, three varying strands and crossed over by another two, in a bid to keep the worst of a hoard out. He hadn't thought it would hold out for long, not against a sizeable herd – pack? - but apparently the world was out to surprise him.

Pleasantly, this time. He didn't hold out hope for the streak to last.

Because pressed against his upgraded fence were close to a dozen Shamblers. Being very, very quiet about trying to break in as well. Too far away to see, or smell, he studied the grouping with a mild fascination.

There was nothing intelligent about the attempt: they were pressing against it, scrabbling to force through with no thought to actually ducking through the lines. Though, good luck to the one that tried: you'd have to be double jointed to fit through the gaps – even the bottom. That said, sheer weight of numbers would overwhelm it eventually. That was guaranteed. But there was no clear leader, point one in the situations favour.

The second being the fence was holding... for now.

Which left him with a bit of a dilemma.

Start clearing out the corpses, or go back to camp and warn them?

The first one would help keep the pressure off the fence: less chance of it buckling in his absence. But the downside was that the fence didn't go all the way round the camp, and there was no guarantee this was the only side they'd come from.

Engine noise echoed, after all, and the group had always been in the habit of driving right up to camp. Something about this area being safe, or similar Hippogriff shit. The road was a large, glaring weakness... And if there had been a leader to this particular group...

His fingers took the decision for him, an arrow automatically nocked. Better to cover his back than leave a threat behind him. And if they had made it round to camp, better to cut off reinforcements here and now before they could be overwhelmed.

The first fell, frenzying the others. But it was an automatic thing to keep firing, the deed done in a minute or so, though he didn't bother removing the arrows as soon as silence fell. Because he had a _bad feeling_ , the kind of ominous tension that accompanied a raid going bad.

And it had just grown.

He set off back to camp at a jog, arrow ready to fly and being held by a forefinger.

And arrived not a moment too soon. Apparently someone had taken the initiative to light the fire, and start cooking dinner: the smell of game overlaid the natural scents of the forest and the now native odours of camp. And clearly, acted just as much as a dinner bell for things other than people. Because at a quick glance, there was about eight Shamblers making rapid pace towards the back of the RV, following their noses with an eerie silence for their speed.

And oh yes, this group definitely had a Leader. Because if that wasn't a formation, he was a cat lover.

Slower, heavier builds up front, bulky and shielding the rest. Smaller, quicker ones scouting out ahead. Maybe for traps – who knew how much intelligence had been retained? Middle ones in the middle, some smaller, fresher ones tailing the sides and behind. Ready to dart out if they were attacked from any direction but the front. And he was willing to bet his entire fortune the Leader was in the middle of that protective ring. Thankfully, he'd emerged a bit farther from Camp than he'd planned.

The first thing he did was shoot.

One of the quicker ones fell down, nailed between the eyes, and just to make sure he had their attention he yelled at them mid-shot.

 _Two of eight._

"C'mon you smug bastard Shamblers." Loud enough that he heard startled noises from the camp. If they didn't catch on from that, then his little group of misfits was truly stupid. "Come and have a go if you think you're hard enough!" And God's alone knew where that quote came from.

Faced with what was clearly a walking buffet behind them and something that only smelt like food in front, that predictable tunnel-visioned focus kicked in.

For a very brief moment he patted himself on the back even as he downed one of the faster ones, for a ploy well executed. He now had the attention of the entire bunch, and the formation was breaking up as they were rushing him. Even the Leader seemed to be caught up in the hunt.

Then reality crashed in.

He now had the attention of the entire bunch, and they were running at him like they had wings on their feet. Fuck, those fresh ones were _fast_.

 _Three – Four of eight-_ He wasn't firing fast enough-

Well, _shit_.

His body needed no conscious input: he was running before the thought finished.

 **REVIEW REPLIES - - - - -**

Hello peeps! Small note re this update - Andrea is no longer experiencing an identity crisis! Also, I am not dead and neither is this story... It's taken a while though as I stumbled across Conan Exiles and kind of got hooked. This is not a bad thing, but has affected my current obsession quite a bit. So I do apologise for the very slow update, and many thanks for the reviews in my absence. It's always nice to know your work is appreciated. A new chapter should be occurring reasonably soon but no promises on timing.


	14. Taking the Hard Line

Taking the Hard Line

Running, he reflected, had been an important part of his life, for a variety of reasons.

The regulation of breathing, setting a pace and the stamina to survive a long jaunt had saved his skin far too many times to count. Ironic that when he was younger, he had been steadfastly running _away_ from danger, only to then willingly _run at it_. Even more so that despite a literal apocalypse, this had not changed in the least.

Zombies invade - strategic retreat. Gather the nerve, gather supplies, defend against an attack - run straight at it again!

Given how successful the supply run had been, he was probably about due another bout of running his ass of again, come to think about it.

Though, he thought as he nearly tripped over a particularly stubborn tree root and then just barely avoided landing in a patch of thick mud, perhaps concentrating would be better than moaning about it. Killed a hoard of twenty and finally brought down by getting stuck in the mud...

What an ignoble way to go.

There were only four, but it was much easier setting an ambush than fighting on the fly in woodland. He was no bonafide forest ranger, completely at home fighting in the densely packed trees like a miniature Rambo - would never even dream of claiming it. Steep banks, unpredictable roots, branches out to whip you and he had been missing the sure grip of anything _not mud_ for a while now. As much as he could and would fight in it, Atlanta had been a breath of decaying scented, Shambler ridden, metaphorically fresh air.

God's bless pavements.

He took a moment to nock and draw, steadying his breath behind the broad expanse of a tree. Instinct had him firing almost as soon as he had a sure target. By the time the arrow thudded home, he was already moving again.

That clearing had to be _somewhere nearby_. It wasn't like the bloody trees were going to uproot themselves.

Well, as much as he liked running, this was starting to grate now.

Still, there was a good point, despite having to vault over logs with a great deal of pointy ends sticking up at just the wrong angle for a landing. The sheer amount of climbable cover, even if there was a lack of reasonable clearings in which to fight. The thought was echoed by something he thought might be a red oak, with branches just high enough to be safe but reachable. He had just succeeded in that endeavour - apparently the log of Pain should you Fuck up had confused them a little, a bonus given his strong desire _not_ to find out firsthand how a dead body's digestive functions still worked - when a black blur landed on the foremost petite Runner, and used it as a springboard.

The approach was fast enough he instinctively ducked, the shot on the second runner forgotten, and when he looked over Harry's mood plummeted.

Because sat opposite was a lunatic with a glasglow grin, the demented lovechild of the cheshire cat and a sallow-skinned, very hungry cannibal. If Golem had an older brother built like a brick shit-house and claws the size of steak knives, John could have been it to a T when he let his true form loose a little.

"Well, you're in fine form tonight." He noted drily, not even vaguely disturbed as the grin impossibly widened.

"Corrpsess to maim, and no one to say I killed unlike a mann." Did he mention the dark hiss? Whitenoise had nothing on that. "May I, _anatha_?"

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, before shrugging and reaching for his dagger.

"May as well."

Because if he didn't, Harry wasn't going to hear the end of it for a week.

-Line break -

"What the fuck was _that?!_ "

Shane apparently needed to remember manners, his inside voice and the fact that Rick looked like he wanted a piece of the action as well.

" _That_ -" He started a little acerbically."Was me distracting unwanted guests. What, did you think I attracted them?" He glared at Shane, and by extension Rick in his shadow. Both had discussed and voted to not move on, something about up here being safer. _Laughable._

Shane looked like he was trying to swallow a lemon, no doubt his and the Dixon's warnings for the last few weeks replaying like a bad record. their apparently reinstated leader duckling just looked shocked. Though that could have been because both he and John looked like they'd taken a bath, eau de Shambler.

"Now hang on, ya'll." Rick interjected, clearly going to sooth the argument. "We ain't here to accuse, believe me."

A condescending eyebrow rose of it's own accord, and with it the ducklings spine seemed to shrink.

"I'll be leaving in two days." He announced to the camp. "That there? That's this camp being too open, too noisy and too bloody obvious. What Camp Caper does is up to you."

It took a second to spin on his heel, less than a minute to get back to his own little section. The aghast resident idiots were thoroughly ignored.

"Freedom, brother?" John teased as they packed up the tent, an anticipatory edge so strong that it prompted a dark look from Harry.

"Don't you dare expect me to celebrate this." He growled - only half startled when it emerged an actual _growl_. "There is no joy in leaving younglings to die by their parents stupidity."

John was a creature: didn't think like a man, didn't relate to humans. He'd actually been surprised humans had been off the menu: he'd known, and hunted, werewolves with less respect for their former species... Wolfsbane or no. But every species procreated - even if the process being understandable to others was more pot luck - and there was a generally universal instinct to protect young. From the fading grin and serious glare, he'd succeeded in bringing home the price of their little jaunt to freedom of movement and safety.

"Take them from the _Authrin_ then, if they refuse to learn. Safeguard the young, teach them to survive without the adults teaching them wrong."

And apparently... that had been the wrong button to push to breed empathy. More depressing, he couldn't really find a fault in it, except morally: from a purely practical point of view, the creature made sense. The parents wouldn't learn, refused to shift to a safe location and rejected any helping hand to boot. Lori? Think about anything other than getting frisky with Shane and keeping Carl on lock down? Not something he'd seen in all the months with them. The woman refused to learn combat of any kind, had the tactical thinking of a brain damaged snail and would happily skip off into the woods rather than safeguard her child. Carol was too much under her abusive husband's thumb to go against anything he said, and the less said of Ed the better.

Every parent - Rick included - had vetoed teaching the kids how to fight someone bigger than they were, human or walker, under the impression that they would be safe at camp at all times. They wouldn't even let him teach what few survival tricks he knew; such as direction finding, trail marking, tracking, traps, what constituted safe eating and didn't, safe resting spots... _Let the kids have a childhood_ , was what Rick had ended the discussion with.

Shane had, shockingly, been the only voice of reason out of eight survivors.

If one of those kids _ever_ got lost, and an adult couldn't get to them in time... They were thoroughly _fucked_.

Still, practical or no, the suggestion wasn't right for this situation. Well, maybe Sophia's was different, he thought darkly.

More frightening, he knew this was no throwaway comment. If he indicated any kind of agreement or permission, the Dark Sprite _would_ do it...

"That's... Not how it works with us, John." He started carefully. He had no idea _what_ John was, and Mione had drawn a blank in the research of it so far. As far as culturally, he knew precisely _nothing_ about the other, other than a need for a pack structure. He started talking after a breath. "We keep separate Dens with young, only meeting other adults rather than being raised by all the pack's caregiver." No sudden murderous look, nothing except a serious contemplation. Hopefully, this was the right tack. "The kids aren't raised communally, not instinctively at least, and the parents have a right to teach them how they see fit without anyone else having the right to interfere."

"Even if they hurt their own Blood?" _Even by just being ignorant_ , unsaid but loud and clear.

"Sometimes they are taken, if it's done wilfully and with the intention to harm. It's... wrong, unnatural for us to take young from their birth-parents. It's... Breaking the pack up, and we tend to have very close, small packs that we value highly. But it can sometimes happen." He struggled to find the right words. How to explain cultural _morals? "Ignorance_ is not seen as a good enough reason to do it unless it's seen to cause harm."

And he would never part a child from their parents, if he could help it. Far, far too many years without his own.

The little girl, though, was a different matter. Ed needed to be out of the picture or have an attitude adjustment, as soon as.

There was a long moment of silence, during which dark eyes drilled a hole into his head.

"...Your people are stupid."

Bleakly, he couldn't help but agree.

Sometimes being right in a situation, and a good person were mutually exclusive goals. He could only hope that he wasn't pushed so far that he needed to do the right thing over the morally sound one.

With this group, though...

Fuck, he was going to be a silverfox before his time.

-Line break -

A thud announced a new arrival.

He didn't look up from his fletching, didn't really need to: even in the apocalypse the man seemed to be able to find cologne that smelled strongly of deer musk. Ironically fitting, if perhaps not the best plan.

Clearly uncomfortably seated on a rocky part of the bank, a brick wall emoted more than Shane did at that moment.

"Where you goin'?"

"New York. Few stops along the way." May as well start looking for communities as he went, the intention hadn't exactly been forgotten... More put aside for now. But if he had to cut ties, if they weren't going to listen and try to indirectly kill him in the process...

On the bright side, away from a group of Muggles he couldn't use magic around for fear of attracting a hoard on their heads, and then attracting a bigger one killing them off if he used magic _again -_ one the group would move too slow to avoid - travel would go much, much smoother.

"Long way to go. You sure your up to it?"

He looked up in surprise, wrapping up the last fletching and setting the new arrows down to dry.

"What? No pressure to be your little clockwork soldier, defender of the weak and innocent?" Perhaps goading wasn't the most mature response, but he was getting sick of it.

"Nah, man. That's more Rick's thing." Shane dismissed. "I get where you're coming from. They ain't shaping up and they're bein' stupid... Everything I've been doin' for em is being unravelled as we speak." And that wasn't a little bitter, at all. "If it weren't for Lori and Carl..."

"Kid's always are hard to leave behind." He noted, then had to clear his throat a little, even as he prodded the fire.

"You're doin' it though." Shane noted, and surprisingly without a shade of judgement or disapproval. Harry watched the dancing flames, contemplating. He was ready to, at least. He'd tried, Merlin he had, but this group were intent on shooting themselves in the foot and making themselves Shambler food in the process. If they wouldn't even shift on _educating children how to survive_ , what luck would they have learning how to kill for survival? To believe that people could be more ruthless than any undead? That sometimes, for the sake of those children, they'd have to be just as ruthless back.

As much as Shane was an arsehole, unequivocally so, the man often had the right idea. Even if his execution needed a little less in your face aggression and more moderation, in most cases.

"Don't want to. Kid's shouldn't be left for... How did you say it?" He recalled. "Walker bait, because their parents are too set on denying the danger to train them to fight it. But you forget, Officer Eastwood-" He smiled as a small grin quirked at the man's mouth. "I've got more riding on me than this group. Now my folks are fine, will be for a while, but that doesn't mean I should dally around playing kindergarden teacher for people who should know better."

"Rick'll-"

"Procrastinate some more, for a little while, if he doesn't get a push." He interrupted. "Has he even mentioned retrieving the weapons bag he dropped yet?"

A shake of the head.

He rose, throwing the woods a sharp glance before looking at the blank spot that used to be his camp but resembled a leaf shelter, bedroll and fire. Temporary.

"If you'll excuse me though, I've got provisions to gather."

And a heart to numb. Because if he was going to leave, he was going to have to cut that care off before he did.

 **REVIEW REPLIES** -

That was a great deal many more reviews than I was expecting in a day... Thanks to all.

 **Harry and magic** \- Magical residue has already proven to attract magically effected Zombies. If he uses magic, attracts a hoard, and then uses magic again - which would be incredibly effective, granted, as you rightly point out he uses mainly battlemagic and offensive/defensive capabilities - he'll only attract bigger, and bigger hoards or herds. The only way to keep using magic with a high output, or to wear inherently magical items with similar, is to keep moving, and fast. Apparation? That would _definitely_ be High Output, both at the starting location and destination. The group are not capable of hoofing it that fast, that constantly, and have yet to even grow survival skills, let alone common sense. So why would he risk it?

He isn't using low-key magic that much because at this moment it's not necessary, the group are a close minded bunch and Americans are usually stereotyped as religious Zealots (Sorry, but an awful lot of the news in the UK regarding Americans is politics related or covering some of the more...Unsavoury aspects of ecclesiastical religions, or shootings. Media is definitely _biased_ too. I imagine more so for Magicals. Witch hunts, anyone?) and he doesn't know just how sensitive magically inclined Shamblers are. He doesn't judge a book by it's cover, but he has been mostly active in an insular, bigoted community who have a high cultural bias in almost _every aspect_ against muggles... While he tries not to, some of this would have inevitably seeped in. Add to that he's fought in Skirmishes in the first blood War, and then an actual War (albeit small scale) in this one as events repeat, and you understand that he's a Soldier. Not a general, not a leader: he is not OP as fuck and all-knowing because he became a weapon, willingly, and a weapon doesn't need to know the logistics if they trust their team and commanding officer to get them there. He was part of a _unit_ , as such his knowledge and instincts are biased towards those actions. As an Unspeakable, most of his time has been subsumed by magical phenomena and the Veil - even Mione can only do so much on her own.

Why would he need a portkey? As a soldier, he had that provided. As an unspeakable, transport was again provided... Or of an unusual nature that a portkey would not have saved him from.

But weapon or no, he has still retained the strong morals and will... He follows or champions a cause when he feels it is worth following. Acts on what _he_ feels is right. Irrespective of how dark or gritty he's become as a result of his past and Unspeakable job, he is still Harry, and given free agency will usually choose "Right over easy". As you can see above though, even he has a breaking point.

 **The magical world** \- This is not his dimension. Not his home, not his people. He cares, he fought, but a great deal of his emotional connections remain to be in his home dimension, if seen through Rose tinted glasses. He lives to find a way home, and at the moment, the apocalypse has thrown one hell of a wrench in achieving that, even if he was back home. If he seems listless and careless... He is. What is he fighting for, here? To be ripped from this world again? Harry may or may not be still grieving the loss of his home and his family, and yes, he is a cold bastard at points because of it.

Harry is not perfect, flawless. He is human and hurting, and just as prone to procrastination as anyone else. Especially if he won't like the result.

 **Half the fun is the unknown** \- Why paint the whole picture clearly, when something that makes people think about the characters, story and plot - question motivations and capture imagination - manages to actually start a debate? It also seems to make no sense to present the reader with knowledge harry himself doesn't have, or refuses to let himself see, when this is from his POV?

The best thing about books is that it leaves the reader to interpret the situation, characters and context - to imagine a world as presented to them, through the character's perspective. It's up to you guys to decide how you view it, and thats the beauty of it. Three people could read the same sentence and facial cues, and come to a different conclusion than harry. And to my thinking that's not a bad thing.

 **Finally, thanks** \- I know it's slow updates and I know that some people are probably champing a bit for the next chapter as soon as, and for that you guys definitely have my appreciation. Also, thank you for questions! It's pleasant to see people actually thinking about what makes the story tick, critiquing rather than trolling. Hope for the literary future restored!


	15. Remember, Remember

Remember, Remember

Silence.

In the witching hour, there was always silence. Like the world was caught perfectly in a portrait of mist and moonlight, ambient magic sighing slow breaths in slumber but waiting, just waiting, for that first uttered bird song. That note to break stillness, and bring it all back to life.

It was an apt metaphor for most survivors, now he thought about it. Pawing for reminders of the past, scrabbling for any hope or control, to breath life into an existence where death could literally walk all over you.

People had some strange coping mechanisms, these days, himself included. And some downright sickening ones too.

He caught the knife he was spinning negligently, running his finger over the flat of the blade. If he concentrated enough, he could still see some of their blood from encountering them.

It hadn't been any different in Britain before the portkey: magic didn't immediately make the weilder morally pristine, never had. Civility fell to chaos, anything permitted in the name of survival. Of feeling whole.  
Some found it in being nomads: some fortified, farmed, created sanctuaries. Others holed up, tried to ignore it. They died, quickly. Even magic couldn't stop bad luck or poor judgement.

Usually made it worse, actually.

He didn't want to think about the people that took it as a sign they could do as they damn well please, a paradise with no law and no enforcers.  
Didn't feel right killing people. And, he thought mid toss, he hoped it never would.

Funny how he'd never wanted to be an Auror, ended up honourary Unspeakable, and yet he could pretty much say he was now. More guerilla fighter, rambo style, sure, but with his moral compass he may as well have the badge by now.

Not that he appreciated it these days. Being morally justifiable and right were usually mutually exclusive goals now. Not that it would change his stubborn, idiotic thinking processes at all. Give him a helpless damsel, and hey presto, knight in beaten up leather and camo to the rescue!

No matter what insults his logical, tactically trained mind threw at him for it, before coming up with a realistic way of acting on the impulse.

Damn his saving people thing.

Up, down, perfect catch. A swig that burned his mouth like fire, leaving tingling ice in its wake.

Funny how impending loss made him introspective. He looked down at his feet, swinging indolently, and caught sight of the half empty bottle with a snort.

Or maybe it was the firewhiskey.

Still it was rare he ever allowed himself to think too deeply about anything these days. He wasn't a masochist.

Home? Gone. He'd had only Teddy, what was left- rechristened Theobald at the toddlers insistence after some hero or other, the change of name prompted by a need to avoid tangling doppelganger's family trees at burial - and Mione to remind him of it. Here? Most of his time had been spent fighting a war, and then having some very accident prone research. Magic was the same, relatively, but he just couldn't bring himself to connect to... well, anything. He'd lost too much, and the magical world was just a reminder, a ghost of something brighter in his memories, that prompted old, ingrained loyalties. Fighting, he knew. But living? That had been a distant, strange thing beyond his reach.

Living meant more to lose. He'd already lost too much. He was broken, he knew that. If not for Mione, beyond repair.

But throw a helpless damsel at him... In this case, idiotic group with children...

Old instincts, parts of him yet to break. It seemed he would never be able to stop being that bloody idiotic bastard that couldn't leave well enough alone, even for the sake of his own survival.  
That couldn't help caring.

"How many hits does it take to shatter?" He asked the silence, the ringing reply of nothing almost ignored.

"As many as you like."

His eyes shut of their own accord, a headache forming at his temples.

"Don't think we get to choose, Fae." Was his chuckled reply. "Not like you."

Three weeks of torture. Merlin and morgana bless and keep her in Avalon, she'd held out long enough through horrors he couldn't conceive, just to get the chance to curse Voldyshorts incurably. To stop his resurrection cycle entirely.

A light tinkle of a laugh sounded behind him, insubstantial arms wending through his own and hugging with a magical pressure that was almost physical.

"Of course you do, silly." A gentle hand fondly rustling his hair to spikes. "You just need a reason to keep going." Playfully whispered in his ear. "Like a cork for wrackspurts."

"What? I thought that drove them away?" He asked in bafflement.

"Away? Why would I want to do that." Was the reply. "It helped them stop being so sad, and then so hungry, so they stopped swarming."

A thoughtful silence fell.

"I wonder if it would work on the bright dead ones?"

Unbidden, a mental image of a chronically happy Shambler skipping around handing out daisies broke his concentration, and the insubstantial arms fell away as he nearly fell off his branch from laughter.

And if there was a couple of tears there... Well, no one had to know.

-line break-

Early morning saw him shouldering his bow and resisting the urge to spit out the aftertaste of a sobering potion.  
The camp caper residents had seen him grumble his way to the river, and emerge with eyebrows raised. Probably back to thinking he was crazy.

Ah well. Wouldn't be the first time.

It was a relatively quiet morning, only Andrea up for watch - he avoided the cooking pot like a plague, memories of inedible stew only making the aftertaste worse - and Glenn hacking at a stick.

He raised his own eyebrow at the sight, drifting closer.

"...A rabbit?"

The massive flinch as a reaction was something he almost, almost couldn't stop smiling at.

"What the hell, man!" The Korean bleated. "What are you, some kind of ninja?"

"Oh yes, ninja of the Tea pot. I can see the teal sash now." He couldn't help replying.

"Strike of the boiling kettle." The man replied, mock seriously.

"Brings a whole new meaning to teabagging." He noted, ignoring the startled noise of amusement from the man.

Still he hesitated on bantering further, after all, easier to close a wound if it was a clean cut.

It took a second of digging but he pulled out the ziplock bag easy enough, throwing it in the startled man's direction.

"Here, medical kit."

"James..." Glenn looked up, almost comically stricken. It was a look thoroughly ignored.

"Instructions on what's in there, where to find them." And... he couldn't look more like a stunned puppy if he tried. Valiant effort, he had to give Glenn that. " And how to use them."

"You don't have to-"

"Glenn." He tried to hide the irritation. He'd never been good at goodbyes, and recent years hadn't made him any more skilled at it. "Just accept it and move on. One of you idiots is going to be stupid enough to get hurt. I suggest you learn how to use it."

And with that he turned with full intentions of getting out of the camp, only to see something happen that froze him to the spot and sent fiend-fyre through his blood.

Mind overrode instinctive urge to murder, however, even as the fire turned to cold, unfeeling ice.

He watched the shadows dance against the tent walls, backlit by the dawn, and knew with certainty that two days was the right timelimit, because someone needed a lesson in gentlemanly manners.

The Peletiers tent wasn't rocking with passion. And Sophie, crouched outside in a ball just small enough to be missed, looked like every Shambler in the world was bearing down on her at once.

It seemed he had some unfinished business.

-Line break -

There was a lot to be said for sharp senses.

Tracking and spatial awareness were definitely easier with it, and he'd surprised himself the first time he'd recognised Mione by smell, and then by step pattern. She'd never quite lost the habit of stepping heavily when relaxed. A habit born from grounding her weight and making sure she could carry all the books at speed, landing on the balls of her feet when in a hurry. She'd relearnt that with danger, but it'd been hard for her to do.

It was amazing what the small tells of every person revealed.

Shane marched, like he had to force his way through the very air to move. Expecting a fight every step, and striking it first. It reflected his approach to life surprisingly well.

Daryl loped. A carefully controlled, fluid motion that resulted in as little force between the ground and foot as possible. The man had been a hunter for longer than just the apocalypse. It resulted in quiet steps and surprisingly patient, even, confident ones. The woods were home.

His brother, by contrast, stalked. Same light step, but more rapid and purposeful. Stiffer control. If Daryl was the figurative wolf of the scenario, Merle was the male lion. Impatient.

Could be just as touchy as one too.

Small animals foraged warily, only just audible. The muted thuds and one squeal told him something was approaching before he even canted his head lazily to look.

He met Shanes dark stare unwaveringly, relaxed as a jungle cat up in the boughs of the tree.

"Ya gonna kill 'im, ain't ya?"

His own emotions rose in turn, but Shane didn't flinch from the cold look.

"Teach him a lesson, more likely." The smile he gave was sharp edged. "One he won't forget."

Shanes nostrils flared, fist flexing.

"Man needs to die."

He studied the man, a little curious. A step away from burying the body, indeed.

"He'll kill himself off." He mused. "Men like him always do, fuck up for themselves given the opportunity."

Murder? Not the answer here. He'd just give the guy enough rope to hang himself.

"My advice? Drag him on a run. Show him whats really out there. He'll turn tail and run straight into their teeth, if that's what you want to do."

"You don't?" Came the growled challenge.

He smiled slightly.

"No point but you're not going to have to worry about him hitting out. Believe me." He blinked at the canopy before meeting Shanes eyes again. "Ask a favour though? Send him hunting with me tonight."

Shane studied him intently, the stare far too neutral given the topic.

"He comin' back?"

"A changed man, I promise you."

A nod, an accord.

Ed wouldn't know what the hell hit him. 


End file.
